


Straws

by Menirva



Series: Blend [1]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack?, D/s, Humor, M/M, Rope Bondage, Sassy Barsad, Smoothie shop, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John works in a smoothie shop.</p><p>He has a knack, a second sense if you will, for being able to look at a person and know what they're going to order. It's not the most spectacular gift in the world but he likes being able to figure people out and he's never wrong.</p><p>Except for this scruffy asshole who is clearly just ordering the wrong thing to fuck with him.</p><p>How is he even finishing an extra-large?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The door chimes.  
  
Red scarf, blue eyes, loosely styled brown hair with a matching neatly-kept beard, black military jacket, and thick, scuffed boots.  
  
Too easy.    
  
“Mango-pineapple smoothie,” he rattles off confidently as he puts pieces of the guy’s personality together with his outfit, the weather, the little tells he picks up from each customer. It’s dreary out, and he hasn’t seen the guy at the shop before, meaning he’s looking for a pick-me-up, something sunny.   
  
“And ginseng,” he adds. The guy definitely looks like he could use the ginseng boost with those sleepy eyes.   
  
Oh yeah.  
  
“Small.” Because uh, he’s not exactly the biggest guy he’s ever seen.   
  
“With a banana add-on,” he finishes, because bananas are delicious.   
  
The guy looks over from the cheerfully bright menu board, the kind of board that looks like a unicorn puked a rainbow (John didn’t pick it), and raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”   
  
“It’s what you want.” He smiles, because even while he's working on dissecting the guy's personality and smoothie choice, it is not beyond John’s notice that the guy is pretty damn attractive. It’s also not beyond his notice that that is a pretty fucking big understatement. “I can just tell.”   
  
“Uhm, no.”   
  
John drops the smile. Uh-uh. He’s always right. He always gets it right the first time. It’s like a parlor trick. Sure, it’s kind of silly, but he’s kind of proud that he can read people like that. Clearly the guy is just choosing to be stubborn about it.   
  
“Ok, fine." No big deal if the guy wants to be wrong. "What can I get for you?”   
  
The guy glances at the menu again before he looks back at John. “I would like an extra-large, triple protein, apple-banana smoothie.”   
  
John stares.   
  
“To go, please.” The guy pulls out some carefully and completely wadded-up bills from one of his five thousand pants pockets and deposits them in a ball onto the counter. John twitches.   
  
Yeah. Totally just going for the opposite of what he said out of spite. The extra-large? Really?  It was bigger than the guy’s head. Jackass.   
  
Jackass with a really, really nice ass, he decides when the guy pays for the ridiculously large smoothie and heads out of the shop. Shame he won’t be back. If he’d just LISTENED, he would be enjoying his smoothie right now and maybe John would be able to watch his pert ass a couple more times as he walks out the door. Aren’t cargo pants supposed to be baggy? Not this guy’s, they’re tight in every right place, God bless him.   
  
And fuck him, as well, because, yeah, not seeing him again.   
  
Except when he shows up a few hours later.   
  
John is just about to close up shop and glances up at the door chime.   
  
“Oh hey, uh, was something wrong with your smoothie?” Like maybe it wasn’t what you wanted after all, John thinks smugly.   
  
The guy pauses, quirking an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned that you assume something was wrong with it?”   
  
“What?” John flounders a bit, smoothly. “Wait, no. I was just surprised you’re back again so soon.”   
  
“Ah, yes. I would like another.”   
  
John spends the entire time scooping out the ingredients and blending them speculating if the guy is just doing this to piss him off. Maybe he’s taking this a little personally, but he doesn’t like to be wrong. He smacks the smoothie cup just a little harder onto the counter than intended and some of the mellow, yellow creamy concoction backsplashes up onto his wrist.   
  
The guy does seem to notice. “I don’t suppose you have a wider straw?”   
  
“Uh, yeah, we’ve got some for the bubble tea we’re selling.” He smears the gunk off onto his pant leg and grabs a thick straw from the jar, neon pink out of spite, and drops it onto the counter. “Here.”   
  
At least this time he knows to be on the lookout for the guy’s ass the second he turns around. He licks sticky banana residue off his wrist and contemplates just how long it’s been since he got laid.   
  
Way too long, he decides, if he’s contemplating just how great it’d feel to have this scrawny asshole bent over the counter and groaning for him. His cock twitches, it’s rude. He scolds it a bit as he closes up shop. He figures it’s the last he’ll really see of this guy, anyway, so he doesn’t feel too guilty about using him for masturbation fodder that night.    
  
Then the guy has the audacity to just keep showing up, which is awkward and doesn’t even make sense. Twice a day, the same damn smoothie every time, and John sends him off with a neon pink straw every time because why break tradition? Seriously, though, where the fuck was the scruffy little fucker packing it all away? It’s sorting of plaguing him in a way that says he’s putting WAY too much thought into this.   
  
It’s not his fault, though. The guy clearly has some sort of crazy obsession. Does he even eat solid food? The guy fucking loves his smoothies, but then, after a few weeks of watching him walk away, John has kind of grown to love watching his ass as he leaves.   
  
It’s sadly possibly the best relationship he’s had in years.   
  
Three weeks in, he cracks.   
  
“How the fuck do you drink two of these a day?” he blurts it out, needing to put the mystery to rest. “I mean, really, honestly, look at you.”   
  
He maybe should have waited until there wasn’t a crowd of customers around. The guy looks surprised, blinks even, which is more emoting than he’s seen from him in three weeks.   
  
“I never said they were for me.”   
  
Oh. Mystery solved.   
  
“I’m John!” he calls out to the guy’s ass, you know, in case the guy decides not to bring it or himself around anymore after John was just an idiot.   
  
“I know. It’s on your nametag,” comes the calm response as the door chimes open. “Have a good morning, John.”   
  
John secretly likes to think he sounds amused. John also kind of hopes that the guy will come back that night like usual so that John will be able to tell him to have a good evening.   
  
Also, he totally would have had the smoothie thing right if the bastard had been playing fair.   
  
The door chimes right around lock-up, and he grabs an extra-large cup.   
  
“Good evening…” He purposefully lets his voice trail off questioningly.   
  
The guy tilts his head at him before his lips curve slightly into an amused smirk. It makes his blue eyes twinkle a little and John decides he might like them even more than he likes seeing him walk away.    
  
That’s probably just him lying to himself.   
  
“Barsad.”   
  
Score.   
  
“Anything else for you tonight?” he finds himself asking now that he knows the guy isn’t packing away frozen fruit puree into a hollow leg or something.   
  
Barsad pauses reaching for the cup, like he hasn’t really considered it, before he reaches into his pocket to dig out a few more dollars, placing them on the counter. “I suppose I will have what you first suggested to me.”   
  
“Small?” He really, really tries to keep the smug tone out of his voice.   
  
“Medium.”   
  
Goddamn it.   
  
It’s almost, almost worth being wrong when he’s kind of sort of positive Barsad’s fingers brushing over his was absolutely on purpose when he takes the next cup.   
  
God. When did he turn back into a teenager?   
  
“Have a pleasant evening, John.”   
  
He asks about the smoothie the next day, purely for business’ sake.   
  
“I enjoyed it.”   
  
“Yeah, but did you finish it?” he can’t help asking.   
  
“Of course it was finished,” Barsad answers. “I don’t believe in wasting food.”   
  
Barsad starts ordering them once a day, usually at night. John chalks it up as a private victory, or at least half of one because he keeps getting the medium and he’s so positive that it’s just to fuck with him. The day he asks for blueberries in it he’s downright scandalized, and he gives him one spiteful look for each plump little berry he plops into the blender.   
  
When Barsad leaves, John swears he’s never seen someone look so goddamn smug sucking on a smoothie in his life.   
  
He also wonders if he’s good at sucking on anything else, purely for curiosity’s sake.   
  
It’s sad when a few weeks later he realizes that Barsad has become the highlight of his day. It’s not that he doesn’t like his job, he kind of really does which he didn’t expect, but Barsad is funny and they’ve started teasing each other as he cashes out and John is pretty sure he knows flirting when he sees it.   
  
Also he’s pretty much giving back as much as he’s getting and he hasn’t scared him off yet, so he’s either a really understanding straight guy or he might actually have a shot at this.   
  
Honestly, if people could just start wearing nametags with their orientation preference it would save him a lot of hassle and ogling.   
  
No, he’d still ogle, just without… intent.   
  
“Just the apple-banana today,” Barsad says. He’s looking tired and a bit damp from the drizzle outside. He pulls his red scarf off and wipes his face while the blender is whirring.   
  
“Careful, you’ll catch a cold out there.”   
  
“Thank you for your interest in my health.” He’s smiling, though, and John smiles back a little, tosses him some napkins to dry off better.   
  
“Well, who would come pester me twice a day for a smoothie?”   
  
Barsad laughs and rubs a wad of napkins against the back of his neck. “I suppose I would have to send my husband out for his own smoothies, for once.”   
  
Oh.   
  
His hand slips while he’s shaking out the protein powder and the triple protein becomes a septuple protein shake, the rest of the tub clattering down onto his foot sending a waft of whey protein up into the air.   
  
“Shit!” He jerks his foot back and stares down into the pile of white powder in the blender being happily sucked up by yogurt and banana puree.   
  
Barsad pauses and looks over the counter. “Are you alright?”   
  
“Yeah, fuck, just yeah,” he sighs, picking up the overturned container and salvaging what he can on the counter. “I’ll start it over.”   
  
“I said are YOU ok?”   
  
“Just fucking peachy,” he snaps, which isn’t really fair, but would it kill the guy to wear a wedding ring?   
  
“You’re sure?”   
  
“Yeah, it’s just,” he laughs, he really has to, because frankly, it’s just his luck, “right orientation, wrong relationship status.”   
  
If Barsad is surprised he doesn’t show it much, he only nods after a moment. “Ah.”   
  
“You don’t wear a ring,” he can’t help but point out petulantly.   
  
He feels like a jackass when Barsad tugs at the chain around his neck and a silver ring slides out from under his jacket.   
  
“I work at a firing range,” he explains, and he really shouldn’t have to, John’s the one who made an ass of himself. “I learned to shoot without it; it feels to strange to have my grip change with it on, so I wear it around my neck.”   
  
“Sorry,” he mutters and starts the smoothie over again.   
  
“You have no reason to apologize.”   
  
He actually does, because it’s really, really awkward to have been using a married man for wank material for the past month or two.   
  
“Just… yeah, this one’s on me, ok?” It seems only fair, last night’s orgasm was courtesy of Barsad’s ass and the way his voice gets just a little lower sometimes when he’s teasing…   
  
Goddamn it, John is really glad that an apron is part of the uniform. He’s already embarrassed himself enough for one night.   
  
Barsad insists on paying, and there’s a finger brush again, a twinkle to his eyes and damnit, John has the decency to snatch his hand back like Barsad is made of fire because he is a decent human being.   
  
Barsad laughs suddenly and John glares. He’s just trying to be a good person here, damnit. He doesn’t need to be teased.   
  
“What’s so fucking funny?”   
  
“I think you have made a misjudgment.”   
  
“Yeah, I made quite a few.” He clears his throat. “I just uh, I didn’t know, and look, ok, I thought maybe you were flirting with me.”   
  
“I was flirting with you.”   
  
He clears his throat at that. “Well I uh, I think your husband might have something to say about that one.”   
  
“You misunderstand.” Barsad sets the drink back onto the counter, tucking his ring away carefully. “My husband is from out of the country, I am sure you have heard of a green card.”   
  
And there was good, old fashioned relief flooding him. Helping a friend get into the country and stay here, that is a noble cause. Barsad is just a good person helping someone out. He’s cautiously optimistic about this. He can possibly see hot, filthy sex in the near future.   
  
“So, what, he’s your friend that you’re helping out?”   
  
But then Barsad shakes his head quickly and his stomach sinks right back down.   
  
“It is not that. We love each other very much,” Barsad considers his words a moment, “it is just that we have never considered ourselves… monogamous… and our wedding bands have scared others off before.”   
  
“…Oh?” He can’t keep the interested tone out of his voice. and he gives not one fuck about that because he is interested, oh he is very interested.   
  
Barsad nods and places his hands on the marble counter, leans closer like he’s going to whisper a secret when the damn store is empty.   
  
Fuck if he doesn’t lean in close anyway and catch a whiff of cologne and a bit of sweat.   
  
“We have always had a habit of… taking in strays.” Barsad’s voice dips low, seductive, definitely seductive, and oh fuck, is he serious because that is definitely working. Blood is racing to his cock at such a frightening pace that he backs up from the hard counter, because ow. Also, again, he’s never been more grateful for an apron.   
  
“Y-yeah?” He’s stammering and that’s embarrassing as hell, but kind of worth it when Barsad flashes a hint of a grin.   
  
“You make a very cute stray, John,” he says finally, pushing off the counter and snatching up the smoothie cup. The door chimes before John can even contemplate that.   
  
“Hey, it’s rude to call people strays!”   
  
He’s pretty sure he can hear the laugh even through the glass door. Fucker.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day he curses the morning rush even knowing it’s great for business, everyone rushing in to get their fruit fix before work. It means that he really can’t flirt with Barsad too openly, and that the fucker seems to know that.   
  
Especially judging by the way he’s casually rubbing his thumb back and forth along a quarter he’s holding as John mixes up his drink. It’s really, really fucking distracting, thanks. He’s long ago noticed how slender and strong Barsad’s fingers look, and more than one thought of how skilled he probably is with them has flitted through his mind.   
  
He doesn’t say much, but then, he doesn’t have to. He pays then casually tucks a bill into the tip jar.   
  
“You work very hard for those tips, I imagine, John.” His tone is low and suggestive and there are customers watching, damnit.   
  
He ‘accidently’ spills part of Barsad’s smoothie onto his arm. Woops. Enjoy smelling like bananas all day, bastard.   
  
Barsad laughs anyway when he leaves, and Blake maybe smirks a little about it then is so distracted he puts milk into a then very angry vegan’s smoothie and gets reamed out for the next fifteen minutes.   
  
All Barsad’s fault. He’s going to yell at him for that tonight. He kind of can’t wait.   
  
“So, uh, is your husband hot?”   
  
It’s really the worst hello he could have given. He’s not really sorry about it, though. He grins a little at Barsad’s surprised look. Good, let him be caught off-guard for once. John was the one who had to go home last night with visions of threesomes dancing in his head.   
  
His face falls a little when Barsad doesn’t answer him, just pays for the drink and gives him a quiet goodbye. Maybe he shouldn’t have assumed that he had a right to ask. Fuck. He’ll apologize in the morning.   
  
Except Barsad isn’t there in the morning; it’s the first time in months, and he wonders if he somehow really fucked something up. The day drags on and he’s worried that Barsad isn’t going to show up that night, either, but the door chimes open cheerily around the same time it has every night.   
  
Blake grabs a rag to wipe the counter, he’d had all day to work out a casual apology but he really can’t remember the words now. “I’m uh—”  
  
Barsad stops him, “I’m sorry. Your question merely caught me off guard last night.”   
  
“If I was out of line—”  
  
“You were not. Let me explain, if you are not too busy.”   
  
“I was about to close up; I’m sure Gotham will survive without their late night smoothies.” He tugs his apron off and goes over to the door, flipping its sign to closed and locking Barsad in with him, casually. Locking potential sex partners into one’s place of business was not at all polite, but Barsad was a slippery bastard and he doesn’t want anyone walking in.   
  
He hops onto one of the brightly colored stools by the counter. “So, go ahead?”   
  
“It’s a bit personal, but, if you are… interested… there is something you should know.”   
  
“Put me down as interested.” Blake nods seriously. Oh, he is so interested.   
  
Barsad smiles slightly at that. “Very well. Bane, my husband,” he clarifies when John looks confused, “and I moved here not long ago, right about when I started frequenting your shop.”   
  
“Well, that would explain why you suddenly popped up.”   
  
“Yes, I used to live with Bane, on a work visa, in his own country.” Barsad’s eyes look distant for a moment. He looks out the window. “We came back to my own to get a fresh start. There was an accident. Bane was hurt badly, disfigured. For a while, he had to wear a mask. It was hard for him to eat solid foods.”    
  
Barsad smiles suddenly. ”The smoothies started out as a necessity and became somewhat of a habit.”   
  
John feels a sudden wave of guilt wash over him when he realizes. “So when I asked if he was handsome, fuck, I’m sorry.”   
  
Barsad shakes his head quickly. “No, he is still quite handsome, believe me. It is only he who does not see it that way.” He smirks slightly, and Blake can fucking feel his eyes slowly dragging down his body, looking over every inch of him. “We used to take pretty guys like you home, have our fun with them together.”   
  
Blake’s breath catches in his throat and his brain sort of switches over to ‘oh God, yes, gimmie, gimmie.’ He manages to swallow, make a calm, interested, not at all squeakish noise. “Oh?”   
  
“Oh yes, most just for a night for fun, some longer. It’s just always been something we’ve enjoyed.  However, it is not something we’ve indulged in since the accident.” Barsad sighs softly, running his fingers against the counter. “I think he feels he is unattractive now, that someone else will not be interested.”   
  
“So, are you trying to bring me home as a present?” he asks. “If you are, you are the best husband ever. I am a great present.”   
  
“I am sure you would be a fine present, if you are still interested.”   
  
“Of course I am.” John can be vain, he’ll admit that, but it’s not just about looks. If Barsad, who IS attractive as hell, likes this guy enough to marry him, bring him back from another country, bring him smoothies twice a day like clockwork, and go looking for a guy to bring home for a threesome for him? Well, then this guy must be pretty damn amazing and John kind of wants to meet him.   
  
Barsad looks at his face closely for a minute and then his smile is suddenly wider than what John’s seen before. “Yes, I knew that you were a good choice, John, and a good man.”   
  
That’s a little embarrassing when John feels like a bad, bad man right now because all he’s thinking about is threesomes and wondering what that’s like since he’s never had the situation come up. Is there etiquette? Do all of those hands and cocks get confusing? He’s willing to find out.   
  
“So when did you want to,” he pauses and decides there’s just no delicate way to put it. “Do you want to pencil me in for a three-way some day or something?”   
  
“I was thinking you might come home with me tonight, actually.”   
  
Tonight. Tonight is tonight and very, very sudden. Also he smells like soy milk and bananas, gross, though if he added protein powder and apples maybe Bane would dig it. He drinks that shit twice a day.   
  
“I’m kind of gross from work,” he admits because he doesn’t want Barsad to think he’s not interested.   
  
His cock twitches with interest in his pants when Barsad leans in close, his nose just brushing against his temple, sniffing at his scalp.   
  
“You smell very nice to me, but if you would prefer another day—”  
  
“Now is good,” he agrees quickly.   
  
He fixes Bane’s smoothie before he goes, Barsad’s, too (medium, the stubborn fucker), and he decides what the hell and makes himself a peach almond smoothie.   
  
You know, for energy.   
  
Apparently they’re within walking distance of Barsad’s apartment. It’s not far, but it’s enough time for John to start questioning just how bad of an idea it could be, and how awkward, and how humiliating if Bane doesn’t have an interest in him. He really doesn’t want to be stuck making smoothies twice a day for a guy who turned down a threesome with him and—   
  
Barsad’s hand casually sliding over to brush against his ass was more than a little distracting as they walked. No wonder he’d asked for a carrier for the drinks; clearly he needed a hand free to fondle John. John appreciates that kind of forethought.    
  
“You have what we’ll need, right? You’re hot, but you’re not ‘willing to catch a disease for that’ hot."   
  
That has Barsad laughing softly. “Yes, I bought condoms when I thought you might be interested. You seem nervous, though.”   
  
“I’ve never exactly done this,” he admits. “I mean, not with two people.”   
  
“That’s not unusual. It doesn’t have to happen tonight; do not think of it as something that must occur. I am merely inviting you over, as a friend, and we will see where that leads us.”   
  
He stops at that. “As a friend?”   
  
Barsad looks back and gives him a relaxed smile. “As a friend. You are one of the few people I talk to outside of work in Gotham.”   
  
Huh. When he thinks about it, he can admit that maybe he’s come to think of Barsad in the same way without even realizing it, which is strange because John usually finds it hard to make friends. He can count the ones he currently has on one hand, and none of them are really the ‘going over to their house to maybe just hang around and have sex’ type. Somehow, the thought of it being like that makes it easier, less pressure.   
  
Their apartment complex is small, but one of the nicer ones in the area.   
  
“Bane will be home soon, any moment now,” Barsad says as he unlocks the door and walks in, gesturing for him to follow.   
  
It’s a nice apartment, definitely nicer than his. There’s interesting stuff for display on shelves—intricate carvings, small ceramic figures, thick books stacked up on the end table,  and pictures and paintings on the walls, the kinds of things that clearly show that its inhabitants have been places, done interesting things. It doesn’t feel like a museum, though, it feels cozy, and thick grey carpeting scrunches under his toes when Barsad invites him to take his shoes off.   
  
“This is really nice,” he says, looking at some pictures on the wall. Barsad is in one, looking younger, arms wrapped around a girl and kissing her cheek playfully. “Is Bane in any of these?” he asks curiously.   
  
“Bane is more camera shy, he doesn’t like his photos in the living room.” He sees where John is looking and smiles, looking wistful for a moment. “That is Talia, a dear friend that we had to leave behind. We wanted to bring her with us, but she is not quite 18 and her father had never appreciated our influences in his daughter’s life.” He chuckles then. “But I know for certain she has a plane ticket hidden away in her pillow for her birthday, and it is merely months away.”   
  
John smiles a little for him, at how much the idea of seeing her again clearly overjoys him. “That’s great; I’m sure Bane’s excited, too.”   
  
“He is fretting endlessly over her well-being with her away from us, and will no doubt fret even more when she is right here  in the spare room,” Barsad says with a fondness to his tone. “He is very protective over those he cares about.”   
  
John thinks he sounds like a good guy. He doesn’t bother to mention it to Barsad, though, because it’s pretty obvious Barsad already knows that. There’s a noise at the front door and it opens quietly. Barsad turns and is there quickly, grinning mischievously at who John can only assume is Bane behind the door.   
  
“Welcome home, dear husband,” Barsad says in the same low murmur that has gotten him hard on more than one occasion while working. “Come, there is someone I want you to meet.”   
  
John walks over, reminding himself, whatever he does, to not stare. The guy was in an accident, it’d be rude to stare if there’s scarring or something out of place, and he won’t be one of those assholes.   
  
“Hey, I’m John,” it’s said warmly then sort of trails off when he holds out his hand, sees Bane for the first time.   


He stares.   


He stares a whole fucking lot.   


Just not to be an asshole. It’s more like ‘oh, hail Mary, mother of God, what have I done to deserve this?’ His mouth practically waters at the pure power in front of him. Not gym muscle but working muscle; power muscle.  
  
Suddenly he understands exactly why Bane’s smoothies are triple protein.


	3. Chapter 3

John has many types, and he’s wondering how he just managed to hit the jackpot that includes having two of his favorite types (big, broad and ‘please fuck me into the wall,’ and lithe, strong, sassy motherfucker) looking for a threesome with him.   
  
It’s clear Bane was in some sort of accident. He’s wearing a brace on his wrist, and John is pretty sure he can see a slight stiffness under his clothing to indicate he might be wearing a back brace for support, as well. His face got the worst of it, though; thick scars run along his smooth scalp, and there’s a gash across his mouth, a small part of the corner of his lip missing, even.    
  
It’s startling, but to be perfectly honest, John has seen enough in movies that it’s pretty easy to take in. Bane is still sexy as hell and currently looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. It’s kind of endearing.   
  
“Good evening, John,” he says as he shakes his hand with his own warm, slightly damp one. His voice is different, an accent that’s hard to place, or maybe it’s the scarring over his lips has made it different, John’s not sure. It’s nice, though, pleasant.   
  
“John is the one who works at the smoothie shop,” Barsad explains.   
  
“Ah.” Bane nods in understanding and John is worried that there’s going to be weird, awkward silence, but then he’s more distracted by the gentle kiss Barsad gets swept up for. It’s somehow sweet the way Bane practically manhandles Barsad into it with a pull of his arms, a hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed to the small of his back as he dips down to brush their lips together.   
  
If anything, though, Barsad is the aggressor, his hands latching onto Bane’s shoulders and tugging him down closer, getting a low rumble of amusement. He can see a quick peek of pink tongue when Barsad licks lightly over the most damaged section of Bane’s lip, presses a more delicate kiss there, and pulls back with a pleased look.   
  
John can’t imagine coming home every night to a kiss like that; must be nice.   
  
Barsad gives Bane his smoothie, and it’s weird because he’s been making about a billion of those damn things lately, but it’s the first time he’s ever seen someone drink one.   
  
He doesn’t regret continually giving Barsad the pink straw for it at all.   
  
“See, now. If I’d have known it was for him, I would have been right the first time you came.” He would have even gotten the triple-protein right, he’s sure of it. Bane is definitely a banana kind of guy, and the apples would add some variety, and that seems right, and extra-large because, holy fuck.   
  
Bane looks at him, puzzled, and Barsad smirks.   
  
“You would have been wrong, still; I buy a medium.”   
  
“But you never finish it, you always give the last of it to me…” Bane says, still confused, and Barsad’s eyes widen ever so slightly, caught.   
  
“HAH! Fucker! I KNEW there was no way.” When Bane tilts his head, John explains smugly about the orders and Barsad’s stubbornness. He laughs suddenly in understanding.   
  
“He does not like being predictable.”   
  
“I’m just good at reading people. Perfect record unbroken once again, thank you.”   
  
“That is a strange gift,” Bane remarks, simply. It looks like he’s taking John in, examining him a little, and John shifts under his gaze until Barsad distracts him.   
  
“It’s not unbroken if I still buy the medium,” he points out, and it starts a heated debate between them. Bane looks them over together for a moment then decides to go change, but he seems to be amused.   
  
Barsad stops the moment their bedroom door closes. He smirks, “He likes you.”   
  
“What, how can you tell?”   
  
“I know what Bane likes.” It’s said with a wicked smirk and John believes it. “Are you hungry? I’ll cook us some dinner.”   
  
John figures food is good, he doesn’t exactly live off smoothies, and he noses around a little after Barsad tells him under no circumstances is he allowed to help in the kitchen. It’s a little rude. It’s not that John can’t cook or anything, but apparently Barsad is very particular about his knives.   
  
When Bane comes back out, he looks freshly showered, changed out of what John assumes were his formal work clothes and into a pair of lounge pants and a simple, black, tight t-shirt that John HIGHLY approves of, and he offers to play darts with him.   
  
John is kind of scared of hitting something breakable, but the dartboard is on a more clear area of the wall so he agrees.   
  
He still kind of sucks at it, though. When one of his darts goes into the wall, he cringes, but Bane only chuckles.   
  
“It’s good to play with an opponent that does not handedly defeat me in every match.”   
  
“He’s good, then?”   
  
“He never misses his mark,” Bane informs him, and when he tugs the dart from the wall and hands it to him their fingers brush. It makes them both pause and Bane hesitates, taking hold of the tips of his fingers and running the pad of his thumb over his nails.   
  
“If you only wish to sleep with him, I will not be offended,” he says quietly with a glance to the open door of the kitchen. “Barsad means well, and it was thoughtful of him to bring you home for us.” His voice trails off for a moment, his eyes distant before they refocus on him. “But I am not the same person I was when we used to indulge in such games together.”   
  
John watches as Bane breaks eye contact with him, and lets go of his fingers. His hand lifts, like he wants to touch his own face, but then he stops, dropping it back down and curling his fingers absently. Something about it makes Blake hurt a little for him. He’s not one for sob stories, but Bane isn’t looking for some kind of pity here. Bane thinks he’s hideous and that John wouldn’t want him, but is willing to let Barsad have his own fun.   
  
“Are you kidding me? I’d have to be crazy to turn you both down.” He takes a chance, sets the darts down and puts a hand around his arm, squeezing the thick muscle of his bicep and imagining just how easy it would be to latch onto those while Bane nailed him into the mattress. “If you’re worried about your face, I’m willing to be just as superficial here and point out what an amazing body you have.”   
  
John’s answer and touch seem to surprise Bane. John doesn’t move his hand and it appears to convince him that John isn’t scared to touch him. He wonders briefly if Bane has always thought people might not want to touch him, but that maybe the accident brought out the worst of it. Bane’s huge, intimidating, and a lot of people might shy away from that. John mostly just likes it.    
  
The thought quickly leaves his mind when Bane cups his chin thoughtfully, runs his thumb up to the swell of his bottom lip and gives a fleeting caress before pulling his hand away. It’s an interesting start to their, well, John’s not sure what to call it, possibly friendship, maybe? It makes the uncertainness leave Bane, though, and John likes that, the way his stance becomes firmer, not rigid, just powerful and sure, even while he looks relaxed.   
  
It’s a little distracting, to be honest.   
  
Dinner is nice, nicer than the leftover beef lo mein that was waiting for him back in his apartment—he’s pretty sure it isn’t expired, anyway, and he was planning on giving it a sniff test tonight before consumption.   
  
They sit down on the couch, and John somehow ends up between them. He’s more than happy to dig into a plateful of chicken parmesan. He supposes he’ll even eat the broccoli because he’s an adult and it’d be rude to just kind of push it around on the plate and hope no one notices.    
  
“Tell us about yourself, John,” Bane says as he eats slowly, methodically. His portion is smaller, and John wonders if it still hurts for him to eat solid foods. “I know nothing about you beyond that you are able to make smoothies.”   
  
“Hey, I make damn good smoothies, ok?” he jokes then shrugs a little. “There’s not much to tell. I spend a lot of time at the store, in case you hadn’t noticed. The owner is too cheap to run more than one crew member at a time, so I’m there all day almost every day. On my days off, he runs it.”   
  
“Do you like working there?” Barsad asks, and John shrugs again.   
  
“It’s not a bad job, honestly. It’s enough to pay my rent and I like it a lot more than other jobs I’d find in the area. What about you, Bane? Barsad said he works on a firing range, what do you do?”   
  
Bane swallows politely before answering. “I work as a body guard; it is not nearly as exciting as it sounds.”   
  
“I blend frozen fruit all day, you guard people’s bodies. I think you still win,” he says, and Bane has to concede the point.   
  
He likes talking to them; it’s nice, casual conversation that isn’t shallow. Barsad talks about his favorite choices in rifles, and they end up having a friendly debate on gun control that doesn’t turn into something vicious like it might with most people. Dinner finishes up with the light scraping of plates, and John is relaxed, feeling good. He hasn’t just spent a night out with people in a while and he likes it, settles back between them and sighs contently.   
  
So when Barsad touches his inner thigh casually, not too high, just enough to test the waters, it’s not that it seems perfectly natural, but it does seem pretty nice and like it’s something he wants to go with, so he splays his legs apart a little further on the couch which makes his other leg press beside Bane’s.   
  
When Bane’s hand goes to his knee in return, his breathing speeds up just a touch in excitement because there are two very hot guys touching him and it’s a difficult task for his body to forget that they’re just going to see where things lead, keep it casual, because he is suddenly very hard and with his legs spread apart it’s kind of embarrassingly blatant.   
  
It doesn’t help that Bane’s fingers are blazing a sensuous trail up his inner thigh, rubbing little circles with his thumb and making his skin tingle in reaction. His hand comes to rest just at the seam of his thigh, so close to his dick and petting at the sensitive area almost absently as they talk. Correction, while Barsad and Bane talk, because John’s words have kind of been lost as blood is happy to pool down to his cock.   
  
When Barsad mimics Bane’s teasing to his other thigh, Blake’s head drops back to rest on the couch and he moans softly, not even willing to pretend he isn’t loving the attention from both of them. He settles his legs apart more but, frustratingly, neither of them goes for the obvious invitation there.   
  
“Does that feel nice?” Barsad asks in a low, teasing tone.    
  
John cracks an eyelid, not entirely sure when he closed his eyes and rolls his head lazily to look at Barsad’s relaxed expression.   
  
“Fuck yeah,” he breathes out happily. Being on his feet all day then being full of delicious food and lying back is suddenly catching up on him.   
  
“We could watch a movie,” Bane suggests, and John wants to inform him that he doesn’t want to watch a movie, he, in fact, would like his dick touched, but even with how he’s hard, he’s more just relaxed than aroused which is pretty unfortunate, honestly.   
  
He shrugs a little, figuring he’ll wake up in a few minutes when they stop stroking him like he’s a cat or something. The movie is more just background noise because he keeps his head tilted back, sighing a little at how he feels like his body is thrumming happily beneath his skin. He knows it’s been a while since he’s been touched, but this is kind of ridiculous.   
  
He’s just going to rest his eyes again for a minute. He doesn’t really sleep that well, his bed is kind of shit and he usually ends up going out instead, walking, people watching; the city is interesting at night.   
  
Just for a minute or so.


	4. Chapter 4

John grunts and kicks his legs out, eyes flying open to see Bane shaking his shoulder.   
  
But why is he dressed in work clothes?   
  
Bane lets go of his shoulder, speaking quietly, “I’m sorry to wake you, but Barsad told me your shop opened soon, and I assume you work today.”   
  
It takes a few minutes for him to process the words. He blinks slowly. He couldn’t have possibly slept through the entire night without a peep, right? He glances at the window and sees the sun peeking through the curtains.

  
  
Fuck. 

  
That’s incredibly embarrassing, mortifying even, when he realizes that he just lost his chance at a potentially mind-blowing threesome because he decided to go down for a goddamn nap.   
  
“Shit.” He sits up suddenly and rubs his hands over his face, feeling muzzy but amazingly refreshed for having spent the night on a couch. There’s a blanket tucked around him, and that was a nice gesture even though it’s even more embarrassing that they clearly at some point gave up on him waking up and tucked him in.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? You could have woken me up. I really wouldn’t have minded.”   
  
“I am waking you up,” Bane says, handing him his shoes. “You looked very peaceful last night. We didn’t wish to disturb you.”   
  
“I would have been so ok with you waking me.” He tries not to make it sound like he’s complaining, but he knows there’s a sleepy whine to his tone when Bane chuckles.   
  
“The bathroom is through the bedroom, if you’d like to clean up. I’ll drop you off at your shop.”   
  
He walks stiffly through the apartment, but not for any reason that he’d like to be walking stiffly. He’s more than a little annoyed about that. How dare they let him sleep.   
  
He stops and his mouth goes a little dry when he steps into the bedroom, sees how Barsad is curled up with a sheet just barely covering him, hair mussed and more than a couple bruises and scratch marks running down his exposed skin.   
  
How DARE they let him sleep. That is completely unfair.   
  
He tries to fix his hair as much as he can in the mirror. It’s pretty much a lost cause. He looks sleep rumpled and mussed and he’ll be going to work in the same clothes as yesterday, but well, he’s not going to pretend that hasn’t happened before.   
  
It’s nice of Bane to give him a ride, and it means he’s not going to be late opening. He explains that Barsad’s job starts later than his own. It’s why he usually brings Bane his smoothie on the way to his own job.   
  
“I’m sorry I crashed on you last night.” He yawns and can’t help looking over Bane a bit. He’d been so distracted by his overall body last night that he hadn’t noticed just how nice he looks in his suit and tie, all of his muscles covered by sleek, well cut cloth, but in no way hidden. He can still see all of that power under his clothing, the thickness of his arms as he turns the wheel and pulls up beside the shop.   
  
“We enjoyed having you over, John. You are the first company we’ve had since we moved here.”   
  
“That passed out on your couch like an hour in.”    
  
“Which means that we are either very boring hosts or you felt very comfortable.”   
  
“Comfortable,” he says quickly. “You guys are a hell of a lot more interesting than I am.”   
  
“Good, then perhaps you would like to come over again soon?”   
  
His hand is on the door handle and it kind of just rests there for a moment while he processes that one. Maybe he hasn’t blown it, after all.   
  
“Really?”   
  
Bane’s suddenly in his space, and when he leans in John’s breathing takes a holiday, but not before he takes in the subtle scent of sandalwood and clean skin. His words ghost across John’s ear and skim down his skin, practically curling around his cock.   
  
“We would both still enjoy taking you to bed with us, John. If you are still interested.”

  
"Yeah, I am very, very interested," he reassures him. There's a glint of satisfaction in Bane's eyes that catches hold of John until he feels the suddenness of Bane's warm, heavy hand cupping the crotch of his pants.  
  
"When will you join us again, then?" he asks casually, as if he's not slowly tracing his thumb up the outline of John's cock, making his pants feel way too tight, making his breath catch in his lungs. When he lets out only a line of what's possibly gibberish, Bane's laugh is right against his ear, low and smooth. "Perhaps tonight, John. We could try again tonight, see if we can find something that might keep you awake."  
  
He swallows dryly and manages to mumble out an affirmative, proud he managed words. Hell, he's about to try for a complete sentence when Bane's fingers squeeze roughly at the head of his cock through his jeans. His mouth drops open and he lets out a low cry of want.   
  
"Very lovely, John. I look forward to tonight."  
  
He's released and Bane's finger's tap sharply against his cock, it's almost too hard which means it's absolutely perfect and his hips jolt forward to try to beg for more.  
  
"Oh... Oh fuck, that's just cold," he complains and gets a low chuckle, the sound of the door beside him clicking to unlock. Now he gets why Barsad married Bane. They're both fucking bastards.  
  
He has to adjust his pants more than once during the morning shift. If he wasn't already almost late opening he would have slipped into the bathroom for a quick jerk off, not one of his proudest thoughts, but it would have beaten the uncomfortable heat that settled in his stomach throughout the morning, the subtle movement of fabric against his ass and cock that remind him that he almost got laid last night and now his body is more than ready for a second chance.  
  
Just after the morning rush, the door chimes open.  
  
"Good morning, sleepyhead."  
  
"Ugh." He makes a face, but knowing he hasn't blown his chances, he can't be too upset over the tease. "Laugh all you want, but Bane invited me back tonight and there's no fucking way I'm falling asleep this time."  
  
"We would be rather offended. Once is understandable, twice we will begin to think you're only in it for the naps," Barsad says as he leans against the counter and watches him casually. John mostly ignores him because he doesn't want to seem like he's got so little control that he can't go the length of waiting for a smoothie to blend without ogling the man.  
  
He lasts about the time it takes for the blender to whir to life. It's not his fault, though; his eyes happen to catch sight of the edge of a deep purple bruise peeking out of the edge of Barsad's shirt. Barsad catches him and gives him a wicked look. His hand leaves the counter to casually trace down his shirt, adjusting it so John can see the full effect, a neat row of finger prints at Barsad's collarbone that show just how hard Bane held Barsad down the night before.  
  
Thank God the rush is over. Maybe he can rub a quick one out in the bathroom after Barsad leaves.  
  
"Do you like the marks he leaves on me?” Barsad asks softly as he circles his finger around one. "He was very playful last night."  
  
John clears his throat and fumbles with a cup. "I can't believe I slept through all of the noise you probably made."  
  
"He's good at keeping me quiet, too."  
  
"Jesus Christ, I have to get through work alive, you realize?"  
  
Barsad laughs lightly and glances to see that no one is coming before he leans closer. "Would you like to touch them?"  
  
He's an idiot for saying yes, but he'd be an idiot for saying no. It's a real fucking catch-22, there. So he figures if he's going to be an idiot he's going to be an idiot who got a free feel up. Barsad looks pleased when he nods, takes his hand into his own and guides it to his neck.  
  
He follows the trail Barsad traced earlier, swallows when he can feel all of that heat radiating from them. Barsad sighs at his touch, guides his hand under his shirt a little, and John can feel a row of scratches.  
  
"You like them?" he can't help asking softly. He's always liked having some marks after sex, feeling well-fucked the next day, but he didn't know if that was an unusual, really unmasculine thing or not, so he's always kept the thought to himself. But Barsad seems proud of the bruises and wounds Bane has left on him, his already relaxed eyes lowering further as he feels his skin.  
  
Barsad responds in a husky murmur, "I do, I enjoy when I move and I can feel the bit of pain they leave as a reminder. It keeps me thinking about him all day, and it reminds me of all of the bruises I left on him in return, that he will be in the same state."  
  
Christ, his hand jerks. He involuntarily presses against a scratch and listens to Barsad's breathing get heavier, sees the arousal darkening his face.  
  
John snatches his hand back when the door chimes open and a family walks in, thank God too busy chatting to notice John was feeling up a customer. "You're going to be the fucking death of me," he whispers harshly and plunks Barsad's order roughly onto the counter, trying to steady out his own breathing.  
  
Barsad doesn't look ruffled, just looks like his usual sleepy-eyed motherfucking self when he nods a polite hello to the family and goes to take Bane's smoothie from the counter.  
  
He stops when he sees that John has made him his own mango-pineapple smoothie in one of the tiny cups they usually reserve for when someone asks for water.  
  
"On the house." John barely manages to keep his face straight.  
  
Barsad's eyelids lower just slightly and he mutters out the most begrudging thank you John has ever heard in his life when he leaves. It puts him in such a good mood he almost forgets his aching cock the rest of the day.  
  
Almost.


	5. Chapter 5

"We're stopping for coffee," he informs the doorbell when it chimes open at the end of the shift.  
  
"Coffee isn't good for you," a voice responds, not Barsad's.  
  
John turns and is surprised to see Bane walking towards the counter, looking around the shop curiously.  
  
"It's very bright in here," he observes, seeming almost bewildered by all of the rainbow coloring advertising health facts and nutrient information. "I am amazed it does not give you a headache."  
  
"You kinda just have to get used to it. Why are you here? I mean, not that you can't be, but where's Barsad?"  
  
"He wished to get a head start on dinner, so I told him that I would pick you up on my way home, if that is still what you would like?"  
  
He's only been thinking about it all day.  
  
"Yeah, but I want coffee."  
  
"If you must, I suppose we can stop," Bane concedes, and John puts extra apples in his smoothie for good behavior.  
  
John is happily sipping away at his own extra large drink—coffee, with enough sugar to ensure his brain doesn't even think about sleep—as they head into the apartment.  
  
He glances towards two men walking down the street and casually changes the path so they're suddenly walking through a more busy neighborhood. Bane gives him a curious look.  
  
"The one had a gun on him. It's not exactly the best neighborhood, but it's better if you stick to open areas when you see shit like that," he explains once they're out of earshot.  
  
"How could you tell?" Bane asks, and John feels a little proud at the impressed tone.  
  
He shrugs. "The way he was walking, how his clothes were bunched a little. I can usually just tell if someone has a weapon on them."  
  
"You are a very observant man," Bane says thoughtfully.  
  
"It's just a habit," he deflects, and they reach the apartment unharrassed. He can smell spices and vegetables in the air and hey, two nights in a row of eating real food, his body isn't going to know what to do with itself soon.  
  
When they get inside, he knows the kiss is coming this time, and it still looks just as nice. Barsad sets down a dishtowel and snakes an arm around Bane's waist, getting pulled up to reach and man, John is basically just thinking of all of the times he's put "size difference" into certain illicit search engines and how this beats them all.  
  
"Did you like your smoothie?"  
  
Barsad pulls away, laughing lightly. "You are a little bastard." It's said with approval.  
  
"I wanted to make sure you could finish it." He jumps when Barsad's arms are suddenly looped around his shoulders and he nuzzles their noses together in a surprisingly intimate moment.  
  
"I will get you back," he promises before he kisses John.  
  
It's not the hello he gives Bane, familiar and passionate, this is curious, exploring. John's eager to return it, hands moving to Barsad's waist when he remembers the flare of purple he saw on his hip that morning. He gives a light squeeze at where he roughly remembers the spot being through Barsad's clothing. It elicits a pleased growl from the other man.  
  
"That's nice," is murmured against his lips before Barsad bites sharply into the swell of his bottom lip, making his mouth drop open with a soft sound. Barsad sweeps his tongue into it eagerly, and not at all sorry that John's lip is sore and tingling now. If this is just how Barsad kisses hello, he's going to have to be careful because John is going to end up the one being a mass of purple and red in the morning.  
  
Who is he kidding? He's looking forward to it. He feels a spark ignite in his belly at the scrape of stubble against his jaw and pulls back panting, wanting more after a day spent thinking about this and what could happen. He presses a kiss against the bristle on Barsad's chin then noses his way down to those bruises he was introduced to earlier. He brushes his lips wetly against a thumbprint by his neck and feels Barsad's body shiver against him.  
  
Bane's hand clasps the back of his neck and gently guides them apart, and he watches Barsad slowly slide his tongue over his own lips thoughtfully, his eyes even more heavily lidded than his usual.  
  
"As lovely as watching you is, dinner first," Bane says in a mild reprimand, and John feels vaguely like a kid who tried to sneak into the cookie jar before supper.  
  
Barsad only laughs. "Perhaps I have found my dinner."  
  
"Do you really wish him to pass out on us again, underfed and exhausted?"  
  
"Hey!" He can't help laughing, though, at the thought of him keeled over from their advances because they skipped dinner.  
  
"He is a bit lean," Barsad agrees.  
  
"Oh, cause YOU'RE one to talk." He nearly rolls his eyes, but he insists if he can't touch the knives that Barsad at least let him help get plates out and stuff while Bane cleans up from work.  
  
Dinner is delicious, again. His stomach is being spoiled rotten, and he even likes the carrots when Barsad's put some sort of spicy, delicious sauce on them. He purposefully doesn't lie back this time, though, and he's finished most of his coffee, strike that, all of his coffee so he's feeling pleasantly caffeinated.  
  
Also he kind of really has to pee.  
  
He excuses himself to the bathroom, and when he's there he comes to the sudden realization, after a glance into the bathroom mirror, that he still looks disheveled from the night before and he's been wearing the same clothes for two days in a row. Oh well, they'd wanted him over again and hadn't exactly given him the option to go home and change. Besides, he'd hobble home after the fun anyway and shower off, and then he'd curl up under his covers and enjoy the feeling of being thoroughly fucked out.  
  
For now, he at least makes the effort to try to fix his hair. He slips back out and, it's not like he's trying to spy or anything, but when you hear someone talking about you when you're not there you tend to maybe walk a little slower, listen in.  
  
"You're right," Barsad agrees, but John had been too far away to hear exactly what to, "I would not have brought him home, though, if I thought he was a threat. I think he just happens to have a wasted gift of observation."  
  
John tilts his head in confusion at that. It's quickly forgotten, though, when he hears a heady moan leaving Barsad's throat.  
  
"If you are sure, lamb," Bane says fondly, and there's a rush of air, as though someone has been elbowed in the ribs.  
  
"If you call me that in front of him, I will kill you."  
  
"You would, wouldn't you?" Bane says just as fondly, as if Barsad has said something incredibly sweet. "You would place a bullet right between my eyes."  
  
"I would never. Your skull is far too thick. I would aim for your heart instead, a much smaller but more vulnerable target," Barsad says quickly, and John barely holds back a snort at their idea of sweet talk.  
  
He walks back out and sees that Barsad has climbed into Bane's lap, their plates having been stacked on the table, and now Bane is rubbing the back of his neck in slow, firm circles. Barsad cracks an eye open and smiles, pats the couch beside him in invitation.  
  
"Don't you dare try that on me unless you want another sleepover on your couch," he warns when he sits down. Barsad's legs slide over his lap and he's surprised for a moment before he rests a hand on his thigh.  
  
"I suppose you may rub me instead, then," Barsad says, eyes shut again as he leans into Bane's large frame.  
  
"That's big of you," he says, and Barsad just hums in amusement. John certainly doesn't mind, though, he considers it a bit of payback when he places his hand on Barsad's thigh, strokes up it slowly and listens to the content noise he makes when he scratches his nails into his thigh, digs into the muscle there and watches Barsad part his legs a bit in Bane's lap.  
  
He's just considering if he's going to go for the a little higher when Bane takes the opportunity from him, cupping between Barsad's legs, making Barsad's head drop back to rest on his shoulder, his lips parting as he moans.  
  
It only takes him a moment of thought before he's crawling up onto him to kiss him, feeling his fingers twist into his hair. Bane's eyes are on them, watching them closely as he shoves his tongue between Barsad's lips, licks eagerly into his mouth while he squirms under him and against Bane.  
  
He rocks his hips forward and ends up grinding his hardening cock against the back of Bane's palm as the other man is still palming at Barsad through his pants. Knuckles bump against him and he remembers just how amazing that hand felt that morning.  
  
Barsad's hand is at his ass, digging in roughly with his nails, pinching his skin tightly through his pants. Heat jolts through him when he's pulled forward closer, both of their weights pressing down on Bane, and knowing he can take it easily sends a thrill through him.  
  
"Bed?" Bane suggests, and it gets an enthusiastic nod from him. He's panting when he pulls back from Barsad's now reddened lips and ends up looking right at Bane's contemplatively.  
  
"Can I kiss you?" He doesn't want to overstep, and he's glad he asked when Bane licks over the scars on his lips reflexively, not answering right away.  
  
"You can," Barsad reassures him when Bane seems uncertain. "He would like that, as would I."  
  
"I—"  
  
John sort of decides whatever Bane is going to say can wait. It takes only a slight squirm and he's able to lean past Barsad so he can brush his lips over Bane's. Barsad chuckles in approval and kneads his fingers into the curve of his ass as Bane tentatively kisses him. It's sweet, kind of adorable really, not that he'd ever admit that out loud. Bane's acting like John might pull away any minute, but John is having too much fun to even consider it. He flicks his tongue out and revels in how soft and full Bane's lips are, scars be damned.  
  
"God, your mouth is kind of incredible," he mutters out, sucking Bane's plump bottom lip between his own and laving over it with his tongue. He sort of just wants to bite there, see if Bane will make any fun noises for him, but he's not sure if the scars still hurt at all and doesn't want to risk killing the mood.  
  
As it is he gasps out, releasing Bane's lip when Barsad places a filthy wet kiss against the shell of his ear, whispering how good they look kissing and rubbing his stubble across his neck.  
  
Bane's mouth finds the lobe of his other ear, bathing it with attention, scraping his teeth there and making John latch onto Barsad's arms and grip tightly. He knows his ears have always been a spot, but oh fuck, he's never had the pleasure of both being played with together. There're wet kisses, hot breaths that tingle through him, and he's finally just slumping down onto Barsad and letting out a wanton moan, feeling ridiculously like goo.  
  
 "Cheats; dirty, dirty cheats," he mumbles out, sighing and rocking against Barsad a little just to be able to feel how hard he is against him, the pleasant friction and heat of their cocks rubbing together through jeans.  
  
Barsad's finger slips down the back of his pants, teasing at the cleft of his ass. "I told you I would get you back," he teases then sucks at the hollow just behind his ear, the delicious assault making John shudder against him.  
  
"Fuck. Bed, or I'm not going to be able walk there soo—shit!" he snaps when Barsad's finger slides down further, pressing dryly against his hole and lighting his nerves on fire there.  
  
"Bane could always carry you," Barsad offers, not seeming at all sorry for the choked moan he pulls out of John when he rubs against him there, his finger too rough and dry but at the same time not enough of what John is hoping for.  
  
"You know at first, John, I thought I would like to see Bane fuck you, thinking perhaps I would suck your cock while you writhed for him. Now, though, I think you would feel so good between us."  
  
"W-whatever works for you," he grits out roughly, and he means it. He is totally ok with whatever is going on here. Barsad and Bane both seem more than happy to take control of the situation, and honestly, he's really happy with the idea of just going along for the ride.  
  
"Wait, like, actually carry?"


	6. Chapter 6

And that's how he ends up with his arms and legs wrapped snugly around Bane's waist and shoulders, rubbing into the thick cords of muscle on his back and loving how wide Bane's hands are when they cup his ass. Now that he knows John is more than happy with kissing him, Bane's mouth is all over his, licking, playing with his lips, biting down at the corner of his jaw sharply and mouthing over the marks left behind. He moans in appreciation then lets out a surprised shout when Bane drops him onto the bed, the mattress bouncing under him.  
  
There's a chorus of laughter and Bane gives Barsad a light shove until he topples over onto the bed beside John. Barsad twists his head back to give him a slight look before he climbs onto John, rucking up his shirt as he tugs at it. John can take a hint; he reaches to help him then sucks in a quick breath, belly dipping down when Barsad slides his head impatiently under the hem of his shirt to place a kiss just below his navel.   
  
John tilts his head back and sighs as Barsad kisses up his stomach, scraping his cheek across his side and making him squirm. He can't help but give Bane a pleased smirk when he climbs onto the bed behind him, helps him tug off his shirt with a quick jerk of his arms. Bane's hand rubs down his arms then they're pinned above his head. He looks up and Bane is looking down at him questioningly. He smirks and struggles under him, feeling him clamp down harder, his wrists being forced down into the bedding, his arms straining.  
  
He can't fucking budge, and the thrill sends a shiver through him. Bane is looking at him knowingly, bending down and capturing his mouth for a brief upside down kiss before his whispers against his ear. "If you want me to stop, just say so."  
  
"If you stop, I'll fucking bite you," John promises, and Bane laughs when he whines slightly, more then happy that Bane can keep his wrists pinned to the bed with one hand, the other moving to his shoulder and nearly crushing him to the bed, forcing him still for Barsad who is plucking his nipple cruelly between his fingertips and delighting in the way he tries to twist away and gets nowhere.  
  
"Fuck, you fucking PRICK," he growls out after a particularly brutal twist of Barsad's fingers that makes his skin feel scraped raw and prickly. It’s a mix of torture and relief when Barsad bathes his skin with his tongue, mouths over each nub playfully before catching one between his teeth and tugging, making John practically buck him off at the sharp sensation.  
  
"I think mostly you just enjoy it, John," Barsad says unrepentantly when he rakes his nails down his chest, mercilessly catching on his now oversensitized skin and making him hiss.  
  
He can't even deny it, and Barsad knows it. He leans forward and kisses Bane, his hands resting on John's belly as John watches, mesmerized by the kiss right above his head, the way Barsad lovingly sighs out and nuzzles Bane's cheek.  
  
"What do you want to see us do?"  
  
Bane keeps his wrists pinned but brings a hand up to cup Barsad's cheek, stroke across it and slide a pair of fingers into his mouth where they're sucked and played with, earning a sigh of approval.  
  
"That… is exactly what I would like to see."  
  
His fingers are released with a playful lick and Barsad shimmies back to straddle his stomach gracefully as he strips off his shirt, opens his pants and lifts enough to slide them off and shuck them to the corner. John admires; he's gorgeous, but he knew that from the eyeful he saw that morning, so much lean muscle, marred with bruises and a few tattoos that adorn his chest and arms. He looks even better now, with a slight red flush on his chest, his cock full and heavy between his legs, uncut, which is new and kind of unusual for him, but John is so about trying new things tonight.  
  
Apparently, new things include Barsad climbing up his chest, twisting his fingers into his hair roughly and guiding his cock against his lips. The tip of him is fever hot against his lips, and he licks out, tasting him curiously.  
  
"Such a pretty face, John," Barsad practically coos it at him teasingly. "Shall I fuck it?"  
  
His cock twitches in his pants, and his only answer is to open his mouth invitingly, his tongue peeking out past his lips.   
  
Bane lets go of his wrists and John wants to complain about it but he realizes dimly that it's because he won't be able to tell Bane to let go if he really wants up. It's thoughtful; he supposes he won't bite him, yet.  
  
Barsad moans out his approval when he slides himself between John's lips. His cock is a heavy weight on his tongue, bitter and salty when Barsad guides his head with his grip on his hair, strokes himself against his tongue and drips down onto it. It's messy and wet, and Barsad makes it hard for him to be able to wrap his lips around him so he can suck, rubbing against the inside of his cheek, pulling back and smearing spit and precome against his lips when he tries.  
  
Fine, if he's going to play that way, John swirls his tongue around him instead, pressing it curiously against his foreskin and lapping up the mess of sticky fluid on his lips. He tastes so good, and John loves the breathy sighs he's getting, the encouragements from both of them. Bane is watching; he can feel the intense stare along his skin.  
  
John would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying being the center of attention.  
  
Bane's hand cradles the back of his neck, taking the strain off of it, and Barsad's hips are twitching more, fucking shallowly into his mouth while his breathing gets heavier.  
  
"Bane?" Barsad says it like it's a question, mumbled out roughly, hopefully. It turns John on more than it should when he realizes Barsad is asking for permission to come.  
  
"Not yet, I want to see you together, first." Bane kisses him, Barsad pulls back with a sound of regret and John wants him back, wants to be able to actually SUCK at him and swallow him down. Barsad slides off of him and he sits up, surprised when he gets pulled into a three-way kiss, messy and mostly tongue, and Bane opens his pants for him, tugs them off with his briefs. It's such a fucking relief to have the pressure off his dick.  
  
"Thank God," he mutters out between kissing and Bane makes an amused sound, stripping off his own clothing. Barsad lets him watch, stare, clearly understanding as he licks a hot stripe along the back of his ear.  
  
"Amazing, isn't he?"  
  
Amazing doesn't even do him justice. Bane has the kind of body that strikes fear and lust into the hearts of women and more honest men. He's covered in scars, some look fresher, like the ones on his face, and he wonders if they're from the same accident. He's thick muscled, his skin stretched out over it as though it can barely contain his strength. His eyes lock onto Bane's thick cock and yeah, yeah, that will do quite nicely.  
  
Barsad lies back on the bed and Bane is over him in an instant, sucking a deep red mark onto his throat, skimming his hands down his thighs and just avoiding his cock even when Barsad squirms in an effort to get it touched. He licks up to his ear and whispers something into it, letting out a deep chuckle when his arms get hit at.  
  
"I warned you," Barsad growls, kicking at him with his foot only to get it caught up, his ankle kissed and his leg carefully worked over Bane's shoulder.  
  
"You have already pierced my heart, lamb, what do you hope a bullet can do to it?"  
  
Barsad's brow furrows. John can tell it’s in embarrassment more than anger, though, and that he likes the endearment at least a little.  
  
"John, the lubricant and condoms, please? In the bedside drawer. I will prepare him for you."  
  
He's quick to hand it over, watching how Bane wets his fingers and plays with Barsad who grips the bed sheets, groaning out low, his leg still hooked over Bane's shoulder. Barsad responds beautifully, trying to snap his hips up only to get them pinned to the bed by a heavy hand on his stomach.  
  
"Let me." Bane smiles, curling his fingers and sending a full body shiver through Barsad's lean frame. "So beautiful, lamb."  
  
Barsad's eyes are closed now, his look too lost and wanting to even register Bane's words. Bane strokes inside of him again, then once more, slow, loving curls and pushes of his fingers until Barsad is nearly mewling under him, beating at his arms.  
  
"S-stop. Stop, or I will lose it now," he warns, panting and clearly trying to hold back.  
  
"I suppose we can't have that," Bane relents and lets him go, lowers his leg even as he caresses down his thigh soothingly. "All yours, John."  
  
Yeah, because that doesn't put pressure on him, knowing exactly what he's up against. Barsad smiles lazily at him, though, parts his legs invitingly, and John can see the sheen of lubricant, how much Bane has played with him there to get him ready.  
  
"Come on, John, I've been thinking about how good you will feel inside of me."  
  
It's the kind of honest invitation that John can't help but laugh a little at, feeling more at ease. He settles between Barsad's legs and Bane is behind him. He can hear the rip of foil before Bane is wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing his lips to his ear.  
  
"Allow me, John."  
  
He gasps when Bane deftly rolls a condom down the length of him and his cock is then wrapped up in a slippery fist. He can't resist rocking forward, fucking into Bane's hand and moaning when his fingers twist around him, his thumb strokes up the length of his shaft and thumbs over his tip.   
  
Barsad tugs at Bane's arm impatiently and John feels a rumble of laughter against his skin.  
  
"I am so sorry to keep you waiting."  
  
Bane manhandles his cock, guiding him against Barsad's tight entrance. It shouldn't be as thrilling as it is to have someone else controlling his cock, handling him however they want; right now, though, he wouldn't trade it for anything. Bane's other hand goes to the small of his back, pushes him forward until he's sliding into Barsad, savoring the way his breath hitches and he cries out softly, how tight and hot he feels clamping down on his cock.  
  
He can feel the blood rushing past his ears and God, he just wants to fuck Barsad until he loses it, but Bane's hand hasn't left his back. He squirms impatiently, tries to draw back and makes a frustrated noise when it gets him nowhere but a small wiggle that has Barsad stroking through his hair.  
  
"You feel so good inside of me, John, just as I knew you would." He kisses across his neck, sighing contently, and John doesn't know how he can be so calm; he just wants to move, he wants to fuck—  
  
His eyelids lower and he makes a throaty noise of approval when Bane's fingers part his cheeks, stroke against his hole. Right. Fuck, he can be patient for this if they're really going to sandwich him between them and use him like this. He can be so patient.  
  
He's twitching inside Barsad while Bane's fingers work into him. They're thick and he's not working to tease, thank God, just trying to stretch him as carefully and quickly as possible which is all John wants at this point.  
  
His head drops down onto Barsad's chest, and he makes a guttural noise when Bane cruelly drags his fingers slowly across his prostate. Barsad strokes through his hair and John finds himself in the same prediciment Barsad was in earlier; getting stroked and played with at that little cluster of nerves, each push sending hot throbs of pleasure through his cock.  
  
His mouth drops open and he tries to tell Bane to stop fucking around, but all that comes out is a short cut off "Ah!" when he strokes again, then a whine of "please, just please" which finally gets him some mercy. He can hear the sound of another condom packet then Bane is pressing against him, hot and blunt, stretching him open so slowly that he grits his teeth and tries to push back take him faster. He's not exactly fragile, but he knows Bane is doing it slowly just to make him go out of his mind, to make him feel every inch of him slowly forcing him open, making him work to take him in.  
  
He can hear the pleasured sigh when Bane bottoms out, the low growl, and feel the press of lips to the back of his neck. "Very good, John; so tight for me."  
  
Bane doesn't waste time. Before John can retort, he's already thrusting into him. It's rough, shallow pushes that keep him deep and make John's cock throb eagerly as he's able to finally fuck into Barsad, hear the moans he pulls out of the man beneath him, feel his cock rubbing wet between their bellies.  
  
It's so good, but it's just not quite as fast as he'd like, so he remedies it by arching his hips back encouragingly, and reaching behind him to grab onto a powerful thigh, yanking him closer. "Come on, FUCK me."  
  
Then when Bane snarls, snaps and twists his hips, makes John see spots and try to hammer into Barsad for all he's worth, THAT'S when it's perfect. He rocks back and forth between them until he's crying out blissfully at the pounding he's getting, at Barsad's nails digging into his shoulders and Bane tight against his back.   
  
Barsad's tight heat clamps down around him as he shouts hoarsely, and John can feel the wet stain against their skin. It makes the tight need coiling in his belly snap and he arches back into Bane, nearly trembling as the man fucks him through his climax. The brutal strokes against his prostate and Barsad's gentle squeezing as he goes through the aftershocks of his own climax milk John's orgasm, prolong it until he's sobbing out as he feels Bane's hips snap forward roughly, the muscles pressed against his back tightening from his own orgasm.  
  
He pants, pathetically limp against Barsad, only letting out a sleepy grunt at the hair ruffle one of them gives him. He feels Bane pressing against him more, leaning past him to share a kiss with Barsad and there's soft words exchanged, something so quiet that even so close John can't understand what it is.  
  
He lets himself just relax for a few minutes, trapped between them. He's aching in more than once place and feeling pretty damn fantastic about it. He'll get up and head out when Bane finally gets up. That's probably proper etiquette, to at least be able to stay there, nice and warm while he's got too much muscle on his back to possibly be able to wiggle out from.  
  
His legs give him a little trouble as he wobbles his way to the bathroom, cleans up and can't help exploring a newly forming bruise on his shoulder from where Bane pressed him down. He wonders if they'll ever invite him back for more or if this was a one night stand deal. If so, he's probably going to press on the bruises and scratches they left on him every time he jerks off until they finally fade.  
  
He flicks off the light and goes back to the bedroom to gather up his clothes, sees Bane wiping down Barsad's skin with a damp cloth and getting a sleepy sigh of appreciation.  
  
"What are you doing?" Barsad asks when he spots him giving his pants a little shake. "Surely you don't need them to sleep?"  
  
He blinks, surprised. "I was, uhm, going to head out... I didn't want to intrude."  
  
Bane shakes his head, making an amused sound. "It's late, John, come to bed."  
  
That's been a while, and he almost brushes them off, but he is tired; the idea of walking home reeking of sex just isn't nearly as appealing as getting to sleep now.  
  
"I could take the couch," he offers, not wanting it to be any sort of pity thing.  
  
Barsad laughs. "Come to bed, John." He holds an arm up invitingly and John finally lowers himself back down, surprised when Barsad drapes an arm over him, when Bane's hand reaches across Barsad to lightly hold his thigh. He doesn't want to overstep but, well, they're touching HIM, so he puts his hand over them.  
  
"Do you need to be up at a certain time?" Bane asks, reaching to set an alarm.  
  
"Nah, tomorrow's actually a rare day off for me, so whenever you guys go I can." It still feels a little weird, but he's tired and out in moments to the soft sounds of their breathing and the warmth of their skin.


	7. Chapter 7

He wakes up to the shrill sound of the alarm clock, blinking blearily and feeling Barsad's legs suddenly kicking out irritably.  
  
"Turn that off or I will castrate you!" he snaps, voice raspy from sleep.  
  
Bane simply makes an amused sound and does so. "And how would you entertain yourself, then?"  
  
"You would still have a mouth," Barsad mumbles mostly into his pillow. He looks about asleep again already.  
  
"I'm guessing he's not much of a morning person," John says quietly when Barsad grunts in annoyance and his pillow ends up over his head.  
  
"That is a kind understatement; you have an hour to rest still, lamb." Bane sits up and looks at Barsad fondly, tucking a blanket over his shoulders when there's a noise of complaint at losing the warmth of Bane against his skin. "He works a later shift for a reason."  
  
John's surprised when Bane pulls him over to him, smoothing his hair which by now has to be wrecked. He's warm and it only takes a little coaxing as he lets himself be guided down on top of him, head resting against his chest. He's still sleepy and damn Bane is warm, comfortable when he rubs the back of his neck.  
  
He yawns, making a confused noise when Bane runs a finger down his back, touching over his spine then stroking his hips with both hands. He could almost call this snuggling but he won't, because then it'd be snuggling. He's just acting as Bane's blanket, really.  
  
"Shouldn't you get ready?" he asks. He's more than willing to fall back asleep like this, but he doesn't want to make Bane late, even though his light petting is making his body practically thrum with contentment. Not snuggling.  
  
"I set the alarm early."  
  
"Oh." For snuggle time. What a big softie. He bites his lip to hold back a snicker.  
  
A warm hand slides between them, rubbing down his abdomen before curling around his cock.  
  
Oh, not for snuggle time.  
  
"I did not have the pleasure of seeing your face when you came for us last time," Bane says as he guides John's head up, making his neck stretch a little so he can see his face. John shivers when he strokes up his shaft with long, unhurried caresses that are doing a good job of making his toes curl.  
  
"O-oh." He glances up and sees Bane's grey-blue eyes looking at him so intently that he quickly casts his gaze back down. John likes attention and all, he had enough of a lonely childhood to admit that he kind of fucking loves it, but Bane's gaze is a little intense for even him to keep watching right now.  
  
He moans at the light squeezes Bane gives him, the feather-light strokes over the tip of him that almost tickle and make him squirm until he's biting his lip, grunting and trying to hump into his hand needily by the time he feels all of the sleepy sluggishness in his body replaced with hot want.  
  
Bane's hand wraps around his throat while he drags his fingers down across his balls, making his breathing shallow, squeezing until Blake swallows compulsively.  
  
"Is that alright?" Bane's voice is thicker and John can feel him pressing hard against him. He tries to reach down to stroke him in return, but his hand is easily knocked away.  
  
He moans out a little affirmative and his tongue licks out to wet his dry lips.  
  
"You enjoy a heavy hand, don't you?" His thumb presses down hard against his collar bone and it's a little embarrassing that it sends a jolt of pleasure through him, makes his slit bubble out a bit of precome onto Bane's fingertips. It goes far from unnoticed, judging from the rumble of amusement that vibrates through his chest.  
  
"Barsad likes it, as well. He's a strong man, so skilled, but he loves it best when I hold him down and make him obey."  
  
"Shit, shit!" he mutters out, hips rocking forward needily at that.  
  
"Look at me, John." It's a rough order, and he feels himself being pulled to obey it like Bane has him on strings. Bane looks pleased with him, scratches a nail across his Adam’s apple when he swallows uncertainly and his throat bobs.  
  
"You are beautiful."  
  
He feels a flush of red on his cheeks, part arousal, part embarrassment. "Save that for your husband—ah!" He whimpers softly when Bane drags the back of his nail slowly up his length and presses his thumb firmly just under his tip. He's so hard, with smears of wetness against his own belly and Bane's as he feels it starting to coil up in him now, tight pressure building and aching for release.  
  
"Would you like to come for me, John?" Bane asks, his voice low and smooth in his ear, so in control over the entire situation, playing with John as he lies out in his lap like he's been touching him for years, like he somehow knows his entire body when it's only been one fucking night.  
  
"F-fuck, yes," he manages to slur out.  
  
"I find it only proper that you should ask politely."  
  
"Oh Christ, please, please," he chants softly, rocking his hips desperately. The pleading comes out a lot more easily than it should, but no one's ever insisted he ask for his orgasm before, no one's ever made him feel like coming isn't just an inherit right he has during sex and that it's something he needs permission to do.  
  
"Very good, John," Bane whispers. His hand sinks into his hair and he tugs it sharply, makes him look into his eyes again, those scarred lips twisted into a vicious smirk. "Come for me. Let me see you."  
  
He gasps out, a full body shudder taking hold of him as Bane pumps him through his climax, one that ripples through him and makes him whimper out as he spills, his fingers digging into Bane's arms and leaving deep little half moon marks in his skin.  
  
Bane makes a noise of approval, growling and pulling John in for a kiss before he drags his fingers through the wet on John's still-trembling belly and slides it between his lips slowly, thoughtfully licking them clean, and John's breath sort of just catches in his chest—that or he forgets how to breathe.  
  
Maybe the breathing.  
  
He shares another kiss, tasting himself on his tongue briefly. "What about you?" He can still feel him, hard against him when he squirms, and Bane shakes his head.  
  
"There isn't enough time, unfortunately. Perhaps, though, you would like to take care of it tonight?"  
  
Tonight? He was wondering, really, really hoping, actually, that they might want to do this again sometime, but he sure as hell wasn't expecting to get invited over again the very next evening.   
  
"Yeah?" he asks as Bane guides him off so he's resting back on the bed by Barsad while Bane gathers clothes for a shower. "He going to be ok with that?"  
  
"I think, given the option, he would keep you tied to our bed until tonight."  
  
"Oh, fuck," he swears, feeling like the air has just been punched out of his lungs at the thought. He barely knows these two guys; he just met Bane two days ago, for Christ’s sake. The idea of them tying him down to their bed and using him however they want should not be a t—yeah, he can't even finish that thought because he's too busy thinking about how much that thought turns him on.   
  
"Please don't end up being serial killers, because I would really, really be interested in that if you want me over again tonight. Not the all day thing," he amends quickly.  
  
"You would like to be tied up? That can be arranged." Bane gives him a look that sends a coil of desire curling up his spine.   
  
He clears his throat and nods. "Y-yeah, ok. Tonight, then?" he asks as he casually sets up an appointment for bondage.  
  
"Perhaps would you care to join us at the movies, first?" Bane asks. "There is a film Barsad has wished to see out now."  
  
John blinks because that almost seems date-like, and he doesn't really know how to respond. Bane seems to sense his confusion and turns to him, his look patient. "We enjoy your company, John. You are not the first man we've enjoyed in our bed together, and we would perhaps be interested in expanding that company for a length of time, if you are interested, as well, but first, we would like to get to know you better."  
  
He's not sure he's any less confused, but he finds himself nodding. "Ok, movie sounds good."  
  
John considers if it would be polite to head out while Bane showers, but he finds himself back asleep beside Barsad by the time he hears the water running.  
  
There's no alarm, but he gets woken by Barsad shifting suddenly beside him, sitting up and rubbing his face. He yawns and sits up, watching as Barsad rolls out of the bed, scowling for a moment then yanking him in for a kiss that's rough and biting.  
  
"You do not work today?" He sounds slightly less like he's about to murder everything within a 5-mile radius.  
  
Slightly.  
  
Barsad kisses up his jaw when he nods, licking wetly at the hollow behind his ear and whispering filthily against it. "Good, you have time to suck me off, then."  
  
If they both wake up feeling this frisky every morning, it's going to be a real problem... He's not going to complain, or say a word, or hope that it ever stops... but it's going to be a problem.  
  
Barsad lets him actually suck this time, cradles the back of his head and sighs while John slurps down him. Too much teasing gets impatient tugs at his scalp. It doesn't make him want to stop teasing at all, and he can hear Barsad muttering a curse or two. He's pretty sure they're not English, and he's also pretty sure if he knew the actual translation of them he'd be extremely insulted. As it is, hearing them now and the way they twist angrily out of Barsad's mouth kind of just excites him.  
  
When Barsad comes, it's with a satisfied sigh, and John can feel the trembling in his thighs when he grips them tight. He swallows and smirks a little, content with a job well done. He licks over his lips before flopping back on the bed and watching as it's Barsad's turn for the shower.  
  
It's probably a sign of his lack of sleep that he wakes up to the press of a kiss to his forehead. Barsad smiles at him when he blinks his eyes open sleepily. He looks like the usual self John is used to teasing him at the smoothie shop, not the wicked grump of the morning.  
  
John kind of likes both, to be honest.  
  
"Your clothes are in the dryer, John." Barsad says it softly, and his eyes close when he runs a thumb across his cheek. "You might as well sleep a bit more while they finish."  
  
"Mhhm." He can get behind that idea, curling back up. "Sorry I'm not making your smoothies today."  
  
Barsad makes an amused noise. "We only get them when you work, John. Every single day is a bit much even for Bane. I look to see if you're in the shop before I go in."  
  
Oh. He kinda just figured Bane had an addiction. "Wait, you really look?"  
  
Barsad just pats his side. "I have to get to work. Wiggle the right knob on the shower, or it won't give you the proper hot water. Lock the front door when you head out, please."  
  
He didn't expect to be left alone in the apartment; there's a surprising measure of trust there. He'll mull over it once he's finally awake, which definitely isn't happening yet. It's one of his few days off, and their bed is comfy as hell.


	8. Chapter 8

Barsad wasn’t kidding about the shower handle. John felt like he owed the thing dinner by the time he got the hot water going, but he felt a hell of a lot more awake after scrubbing off the sweat of last night. He couldn't resist inspecting his body in the mirror after, twisting to see the red nail marks on his back from Barsad, the small, neat bruises on his shoulder from Bane. Even after a shower, he could feel a pleasant ache in his muscles that lasted while he pulled his still warm clothes from the dryer, when he carefully locked the door behind him, as he did some grocery shopping, ran some quick errands and finally went back to his apartment to let it know he hadn't left it for another apartment.  
  
He got a text a few hours later, while he was contemplating if he should bring an overnight bag or if that might be too presumptuous.   
  
_Dinner tonight before movie?  
_  
He looks at the contact information.  
  
Barsad.  
  
 _Dick. I never gave you my number._  
  
 _Barsad: It is not my fault you sleep so soundly  
_  
 _You're one to talk._  
  
 _Barsad: Dinner?  
  
Yeah. Burgers?   
_  
_Barsad: Absolutely not. Pizza if you insist on junk food_  
  
Fine. Where do you want to meet?   
  
Barsad: Give me the address to your apartment and we can pick you up if you wish. Then you can keep a change of clothing in the car while we are out   
  
Overnight bag it is, then.    
  
He's pretty sure he should at least be annoyed that Barsad added his name to his contacts, but mostly it's forgiven when he spends the rest of the day getting snarky comments about how the people coming to the firing range can't shoot for shit and that they should consider it an honor that he's giving them advice.  
  
When they get to the pizzeria, he's not sure it counts as junk food when it’s loaded with vegetables. They just seem amused when he informs them of their error. When he bites into his pizza, he feels a brush of fingers against the crotch of his pants and nearly chokes on a mushroom. He's not even sure which one did it. Both are way too fucking good at looking impassive.   
  
He laughs when Barsad buys the tickets for the movie.   
  
"Not a word. The Hunger Games was a good series," is all Barsad will say on the matter.  
  
John just shakes his head and buys them popcorn.  
  
By the time the movie is over, he's a bundle of nervous energy, something that always manages to happen on his days off. It's why he takes full day shifts, so he can go home and collapse and sometimes sleep. Now he's had time to overthink the entire morning exchange between him and Bane and just what a stupid idea it is to tell someone you’ve known for two days that you want them to tie you up.  
  
His stomach is kind of squirming around on the drive to their home, and not in a fun sort of way. It's not like he actually thinks they're serial killers or something like that, it's just that while having Bane pin him down felt amazing last night, it was in the moment and he didn't question it.   
  
John will be the first one to admit he has some intimacy and trust issues, ok a lot; he would actually like to announce that he's probably cornered the market on them. So now he's wondering if it will maybe fuck something up if he asks Bane if rope could possibly be another day, or if that will lead to not being invited back to another day.   
  
He really wants to come back. He doesn't want to fuck this up even though he really doesn't even know what the fuck this is TO fuck up. He's willing to be a little nervous for that. He'll get over it.  
  
They're on the couch and Barsad is showing him exactly why Bane likes having John to play darts with by landing each shot with an easy snap of his wrist without even standing up. It's completely unfair, and John can't even imagine him with a gun in his hands.  
  
"Thank God we're not betting over this."  
  
"He has cleaned up more than one bar doing so," Bane comments, and Barsad just smirks as he lands another bullseye with ease.  
  
"As I recall, you are often the one placing the bets for me."  
  
"I wouldn't want you to get distracted." As he says it, he tries to slip his hand onto Barsad's thigh. It gets caught by the wrist without a glance and Barsad makes his hit anyway, looking smug.  
  
"I'm just going to concede this round to you," John says after he studies the dart board for half a second.  
  
"It is less humiliating for you that way," Barsad agrees, and John shoves his shoulder.  
  
It somehow ends with John pinned to the couch and Barsad kneeling on his chest. Ow. He's light, but his knees are bony as hell and he's pressing all of his weight into them.  
  
"How the fuck did you even do that?" he manages to wheeze.  
  
Barsad's flash of teeth is near predatory. "I could teach you. It is useful."  
  
He considers it a moment before Bane shakes his head. "Be careful, he is a ruthless teacher."  
  
"I only make sure my students never forget what they learn."  
  
John decides he'll pass on the lesson, and when he squirms, Barsad slides off of him and pats his chest. "So easy to pin down; maybe you do not even need the rope."  
  
He doesn't think he reacts that strongly to that beyond going a little still, but Barsad's hand stops to rest on his chest.  
  
"Is something wrong?"  
  
John shakes his head nervously, feeling his breathing quicken. He's being so stupid.  
  
Bane looks down at him and watches his expression, seeming to put the puzzle pieces together, much to his embarrassment. "John, are you perhaps not comfortable with the idea of being bound tonight?"  
  
"I'm fine," he disagrees quickly. "I'm sure I'll probably like it once it's happening."  
  
"Not exactly a ringing endorsement," Barsad comments dryly.   
  
Bane seems to agree and reaches to rub his shoulder soothingly. "We do not want to do something that you are not completely comfortable with."  
  
"That will not be fun for us, not with you," Barsad agrees seriously. "Bane and I have had many years to work out each other's comfort zones. We need you to help us learn yours."  
  
Shit, it makes so much sense when it's put like that, like he's not just being a wuss over the whole thing. "Ok, I get it, I'm sorry. I just… this is really new for me, ok? I mean, I really, really liked what you did last night and this morning," he stops a moment to consider his words carefully, "and I'm really interested in more of it, just, slowly."  
  
"Slowly is perfectly understandable," Barsad says, and he's smirking, but there's reassurance in his eyes. "Perhaps we would like to take our time with you, anyway."  
  
"If you would like, you can watch me bind Barsad tonight."  
  
He's about to give that a 'oh holy hell yes' when Barsad twists his body to face Bane, practically sneering at him.  
  
"You will never pin me down."  
  
Bane's eyes narrow slightly and shift from something soothing into something savage and dangerous.  
  
John yelps in shock and jerks up to sit on the couch when the first fist flies, a punch from Barsad to Bane's side, sharp and brutal. "What the fuck!"  
  
It takes Bane a shockingly short time to recover from the hit, just a quick exhale of breath and suddenly he's on top of Barsad, huge hands wrapping around his arms and pulling him from the couch to the floor.  
  
John considers phoning the police about a domestic dispute.  
  
Then he scrambles up to the top of the couch when Barsad's foot lashes out and nearly smacks him in the face.  
  
It's rough and gritty and looks painful as hell. One would think that, with Bane's size, Barsad would drop right away, but Barsad is wickedly fast as they attack each other with kicks and fists, nails and holds, wrestling on the carpet, and John winces a couple of times just watching.  
  
Barsad spits out what John is guessing is something ugly in another language when Bane manages to wrench  his arms behind his back, the full weight of his knee on the small of his back to keep him still while he strips Barsad's shirt with precise motions that don't let Barsad break free from his hold. It elicits a small pained noise when he pulls on Barsad's arms and forces his shoulders back.  
  
"Always a struggle to the end. You're like a little wolf when you get this way." He says it affectionately, and John is still staring, uncertain when Bane glances up at him.  
  
"Will you bring me the rope and shears from the hall closet, John?"  
  
"Don't you dare!" Barsad hisses out and struggles anew.  
  
"I, uh…" He falters at that and Bane chuckles.  
  
"For Barsad to accept defeat, to accept me binding him, he needs to struggle; he needs me to prove to him that I am stronger, that I have beaten him.  
  
Bane dares to take his eyes off of Barsad to look at him for an instant, and it makes Barsad jerk quickly and try to shift out of the hold, but Bane's attention is back on him, his hand going to the back of his neck and squeezing hard.  
  
"Enough, lamb; I have bested you."  
  
He twists him so that Barsad is on his back, his chest heaving for air from the fight and his torso scraped red with rug burn, eyes wild and feral. He tries to swing again but gets his fingers laced with Bane's and pinned tightly over his head while Bane swings a leg over him and settles heavy on his stomach, pushing the air from his lungs with a cough.  
  
"He knows that he need only say the word and I would stop. I would release him the instant he said no, but he never says no, do you?"  
  
Barsad's eyes narrow into something sharp and full of malice and he says nothing, nothing at all.  
  
"I know that you are very observant, John. Look a bit closer," Bane bids him.  
  
John is still torn, but it doesn’t really seem like Bane would really be wrestling down Barsad to hurt him, that they would suddenly be exchanging vicious hits, if this isn’t something they have done before, something that they do maybe even regularly, and John can’t fathom all of the clear devotion they have for each other being a sham, so he looks closer, confused until—  
  
Oh.  
  
He takes in the sight of the thick bulge in Barsad's jeans, the minute rocking of his hips that is grinding his ass back against the carpet. What he thought was rug burn he is now starting to realize is at least partly a flush of arousal. The bright blue of his eyes can barely be seen, his pupils are so dilated with excitement, not contracted in anger.  
  
Barsad bares his teeth when he realizes what John is seeing. "Don’t you dare help him!"   
  
John hesitates. "Are you going to tell him to stop?"   
  
He gets an angry snarl that reaches down to his core, and it really shouldn’t be that much of a turn on.  
  
He goes to get the rope and hears the sound of curses and more struggling behind him.  
  
The rope is thick and red, made of twisted cotton, sturdy and almost soft to the touch. He finds several long coils of it neatly hung on a hook in the closet where a pair of shears hangs with it. He recognizes them from one too many TV medical dramas as those used to cut away fabric from the body in case of emergency. He can admire that kind of careful forethought.  
  
When he comes back with them, Barsad shoots him a baleful glare and tries to push his hands up against Bane's grip, but has no leverage.   
  
"Come closer with it. Be careful, he bites when he knows he is so desperately close to submitting," Bane warns him, and John thinks it’s a joke until he sees Barsad bare his teeth.  
  
"Will you hold his wrists for me?"  
  
John isn't entirely sure he actually wants to be anywhere near Barsad at the moment when he looks like if he had his limbs free he would shred them both into pieces, but Bane guides him to pin his wrists, to put all of his weight onto it because fuck if he doesn't at first and Barsad almost manages to toss him even with the angle.  
  
With his new freedom of movement, Bane's hand cuts through the air to smack down sharply onto Barsad's hip, hard enough that the slap of skin sounds sharp in the air, leaving a smarting red mark. Barsad arches, his head thudding back against the carpet.  
  
"Enough, lamb; you are only hurting yourself." Bane says it almost scoldingly when Barsad tries to buck up again.  
  
"I will gut you," Barsad swears in a low hiss. Bane looks down at him like he's fallen in love all over again. John would laugh if he wasn't too scared of losing his grip.  
  
"Suit yourself," Bane drawls the words out softly, and traces his hand down Barsad's chest. "Let me show you, John, how one takes a wild wolf cub and breaks him down into a sweet little lamb."  
  
Barsad's eyes flash brighter for a moment, a look of hesitation before it's clamped down on. Bane catches it, though, and his hand goes to his chin, gripping it to wisely avoid getting his fingers torn into.  
  
"Tell me no and I will stop." It's calm and sincere even with how much he can tell Bane is enjoying Barsad under him. John believes if he says stop now Bane would be off of Barsad in an instant.  
  
Barsad spits in his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Bane's lips twist into a sincere and cruel smirk. "Have it your way, lamb."  
  
"This is a double column tie," Bane explains to John as he finds the center of one of the rope coils. "It is a simple technique, but the effect is quite stunning on him."  
  
John watches curiously as Bane loops the rope about Barsad's arms. John's surprised when he's not knotting it so much as carefully weaving and looping it up the length of Barsad's forearms. He slides a finger under the ropes more than once to check their tightness even while Barsad tries to wriggle out of their grasp. He continues working from a little above his elbows to his wrists until they're bound up together. John swallows dryly. He can understand why Bane likes the effect of this one, Barsad's arms look like they've been laced up into a pair of gauntlets, beautiful and unmovable with a length of rope left at his wrists to pull him around or tie him off somewhere.  
  
When Bane knots off the end of the tie with careful precision, Barsad yanks and twists at his arms, clearly searching out for any weakness in Bane's work, any little slip that will free him. He finds nothing and a noise of frustration wells out of him.  
  
"What about his legs?" John can't help asking curiously because as far as John is concerned they're just as deadly as Barsad's hands. Judging by the hateful look he gets for his question, he's guessing Barsad agrees.  
  
"Not here," Bane says and he stands, hoisting Barsad over his shoulder like he's a prize to be made off with. Barsad shouts and would clearly be kicking him if Bane wasn't holding his legs tightly. As it is, he beats his bound arms against his back as hard as he can from his angle.  
  
John kind of hopes no one in the other apartments calls the police, though he supposes that if they haven't done it before then they should be good. When Bane motions to them, he grabs up the remaining rope and the shears, following him into the bedroom and getting a fiery glare from Barsad which is stopped when Bane smacks sharply over his ass, pulling a deep grunt from the smaller man.  
  
John kind of doesn't look him in the eyes because, tied or not, he's intimidating as fuck right now, not at all the calm, teasing man that he fixes smoothies for twice daily. Between this and the temperamental grump he met this morning, he's starting to wonder just how many sides there are to Barsad.  
  
Bane dumps him onto the bed and pins his thighs when he immediately tries to kick his legs out.  
  
"Do not think I do not know every single one of your tricks by now." Bane chuckles and sits on Barsad's legs while he unzips his jeans, rolling them down with care and exposing Barsad whose dick is flushed an eager red, pressing insistently against his belly once free of the confines of his clothing. Bane makes an affectionate noise and Barsad looks briefly embarrassed. Bane dares to steal a kiss, jerking back just before Barsad tries to snap his teeth down onto his lips.  
  
Bane clicks his tongue at him in reproval. "Even more stubborn for me, tonight. Is it because John is here? Do you not want him to see how wrecked I can make you?"  
  
There's a stubborn set to Barsad's jaw at that, like he's clenching it, determined to try and appear indifferent. Bane chuckles and strokes it, scratches through his beard. "Yes, I do believe that is it, isn't it? Shall I tell John a story?"  
  
John sits on the edge of the bed uncertainly, watching as Bane takes the ends of the rope that dangle from Barsad's wrists and works to secure them to one of the thick—suspiciously sturdy, now that he's thinking about it—metal poles of the headboard. When Barsad yanks it doesn't even shake.  
  
"Story?" he asks cautiously as Bane wrestles with Barsad's legs, taking hold of one and looping rope around his knee, winding it around several times and leaving slack at the end. John can't help but stare when it's repeated around the other knee and Bane pushes on them, guiding them so they're bent and uses the loose rope on the end, tying it to the bedposts with enough slack that Barsad isn't bent back at too sharp of an angle but he's spread open, exposed, completely helpless. John finds himself squirming at the thought.  
  
Bane settles a pillow under Barsad's head and another under his lower back to soothe any strain from being bent. He runs a hand across Barsad's inner thigh, slowly stroking the skin there and watching Barsad shifting in the bonds, testing them again. "Yes, the story of how Barsad and I found one another."  
  
The effect is strange when it seems to finally click for Barsad that there's no escaping the ties. At first, there's more struggle, vicious snarling and swears, then, when Barsad winds down, when his brain finally seems to accept there's no getting out of the hold, it's like ice cracking, tension melting away slowly. John can see the tiny tremor that runs up his exposed thighs, the way his fingers flex and loosen restlessly.  
  
Bane makes a soft, soothing noise, barely able to be heard as he pets Barsad's thigh. "I have you now, lamb; you are mine to play with.” Barsad forces his head up from the pillow to better watch Bane, to see the hands lovingly caressing down his thighs and petting across his ass before he drops his head back down with a soft murmur of agreement that makes Bane look pleased, patting his leg.  
  
He beckons John to come closer, guiding his hand to stroke Barsad's side, who sighs softly and can't seem to resist squirming more as Bane speaks.  
  
"It was nearly a decade ago; we were much younger then, weren't we?"  
  
Barsad nods a little, then his mouth drops open when Bane digs his nails against the curve of his ass, dragging them slowly up his thigh and leaving a neat pink trail of lines.  
  
"Both of us were part of military factions in our respective countries. Barsad and a group of other men had been sent to aid us for a measure of time over a dispute."  
  
John nods and supposes he really shouldn't be surprised that both of them have been in the military, not with how they fight and considering their day jobs.  
  
"Barsad was given to us to act as a sniper, and he did a fine job at it, the finest I have ever seen," Bane says with a clear measure of pride in his voice, by now petting against Barsad's belly, ignoring the way his cock is flush against it and eager for attention. "But he was also brash, cocksure, disobedient."  
  
"Shocking," John comments dryly and Bane stops, giving him an entertained look before he places two of his fingers against Barsad's lips. Barsad kisses them wetly and gives a small cut-off moan when Bane slides them into his mouth.  
  
"I was in charge of my faction at the time, and Barsad had been put into my command temporarily. He was most... displeased by the notion. I was willing to let such a thing go," Bane gives Barsad a fond look when the soft sound of sucking can be heard in the room, "but he couldn’t stand to be ignored, could you? Not when you wanted my attentions so very badly."  
  
Barsad gives a minute jerk of his head in agreement, all of the earlier ire completely drained out of him. John is kind of in awe over the radical change. Barsad pulls back from Bane's fingers and kisses them reverently.  
  
"Please." It's whispered like a prayer, and Barsad shifts restlessly on the bed.  
  
Bane gives his knee a comforting squeeze, petting over the binding keeping him in place."Soon," he promises, and it's enough to make Barsad nod but whimper softly in want.  
  
"He acted up; finally, he disobeyed a direct order to me in front of my men and his own superior officers. What I was willing to let go out of mere amusement of such a small man acting like such a big wolf, they were not. They ordered him into my tent for disciplinary action. What they did not understand, and what I was just beginning to, was that that was precisely what he desired, wasn’t it?"  
  
Barsad nods desperately, the words sounding thick in his mouth when he speaks. "Yes, yes, that is what I wanted, it's what I want, please..."  
  
"Tell him the next part, lamb, and I will see to you," Bane promises, and Barsad struggles not to slur the words.  
  
"I was... so sure of myself, foolishly so. I thought I would be able to best him in a fight, that he was merely brute strength." His breath catches and his eyes flick eagerly toward Bane's hands when he sees he has taken out their bottle of lube, hears the soft snick of the cap opening. "So I challenged him, something I had done to many strong men, men who wanted my body and thought me weak for my size…" His voice trails off. He makes a soft "ah" when Bane presses slick fingers against his entrance, but doesn’t open him like Barsad so clearly wants.  
  
"Continue," Bane says, and he's rubbing his thumb in a slow tantalizing circle, tracing over Barsad’s hole but never dipping in, drawing shaky breaths and soft, pleading noises as Barsad stops speaking, looking breathless, his fingers clenched into tight fists.  
  
"Keep going, lamb, or I will stop," Bane warns.  
  
Barsad takes a slow, shaky breath and continues, "I knew that I was a desirable man—"  
  
"You still are," Bane interjects with a rumbly laugh, and rewards Barsad by working his thumb into him.  Barsad clenches down, greedy for it.  
  
John's own breathing is heavy. There's a thick sense of need in the air and it's getting to him, making him remember exactly how good Bane felt inside of him, how much he liked when Barsad slid into his mouth. He can’t imagine how empty Barsad has to feel now, the sense of helplessness with Bane completely controlling how much touch he's getting, how he can't even close his legs, how he has to just be still and take whatever Bane decides to be merciful enough to give him. It has to be maddening.  
  
He reaches without thinking and rubs over the crotch of his pants, palming at his cock through the thick material. He stops and shudders when he feels some dampness even through the cloth, his cock leaking precome so strongly that it's beginning to soak through the material. That's never happened.  
  
He's always known that he's been more prone to dripping out. He's had boyfriends who have really enjoyed that, teased at him to coax out as much as they could until it was running down the length of his dick and he was squirming around like crazy for it, but he's never been so fucking wet from doing nothing, from just sitting and watching and feeling so weird in his head from the display Bane and Barsad make. He adjusts himself and it makes the tip of his cock graze against the wet material, sending a shock of pleasure through him. He can't resist repeating the motion a few times, rubbing his thumb against himself and biting his bottom lip while Barsad continues.  
  
"I told him I would bet with him, a simple bet." His body tenses suddenly and his head drops back when Bane rubs inside of him with his thumb, clearly knowing the exact pressure and pace to use to drive Barsad to distraction and employing it mercilessly. "I-I told him that if he bested me, I would apologize publically," he pauses, "and privately I would bend myself over his cot, let him take me as he pleased."  
  
"Jesus," he breathes out quietly and slides down the zipper to his pants. Surely they can't fault him for that one.  
  
Bane watches him intently, enough to make him pause before guiding his cock out, until he gets a nod of approval which sends a spark of pleasure through him.  
  
"He told me that if he won, though, he wanted me on my knees for him, and to tell his officers what a fine job he was doing." Bane shakes his head, pulling his thumb from Barsad and patting his ass for a moment then watching him as he twitches, moves restlessly with him gone.  
  
Barsad is biting into his lip, closing his eyes now that Bane isn't touching him, looking lost without that anchor. Bane reaches into the bedside drawer and sets a vibrator onto the blanket beside Barsad. It's nothing fancy, but John figures that makes sense for them, small, black, curved. He messed around with a couple before and knows that no matter how amazing a cock feels inside, nothing feels quite the same as something buzzing intently against your prostate, making you see spots.  
  
"What happened?" he can't help asking, anything to take his mind from replaying over and over again just what it would be like for one of them to use that toy on him. He's starting to feel like he's the one that's been tied up and left empty. He strokes his hand over his cock once and sighs softly when it relieves some of the tension in him while building up an entirely different kind.  
  
Bane touches Barsad just below his stomach and it makes him open his eyes, reacting to the touch like it's a precious gift, like Bane is sunlight and Barsad wants to soak in every drop of him.  
  
"He broke two of my fingers." He says it in the same tone as a more sane person might say that Barsad sent him flowers, or a thoughtful gift.  
  
Barsad lets out a choked off laugh at that. "You cracked four of my ribs."  
  
"I could not risk your fingers, I would never damage such skilled tools." He touches the binding at Barsad's wrists as he says it then picks up the vibrator, smirking when Barsad's eyes flare a little at spotting it. "Even with my broken fingers, I managed to wrestle him down, put him into a hold he could not break."  
  
He slicks up the toy with an easy twist of his wrist. "I was going to simply send him back to his bunk with his tail between his legs until I saw beyond the cool, calm, mask he keeps, how his pupils were blown with a lust for me to put him in his place, to make him obey me." Bane rubs the head of the toy against Barsad's opening, a smirk on his scarred lips when Barsad tries to spread his legs even further apart hopefully, straining the ropes.  
  
"I told him what you heard me tell him earlier, what I have told him many times since then. That if he tells me no, I will stop, but if he does not... I will do what I wish with him."  
  
"And?" John knows the answer, but he wants to hear it, fuck, he wants to hear every detail of this. The words are soaking into him, and he's so slick in his own hand, just holding himself now and wondering how long he can resist jerking off to the sight of them both.  
  
"He did not tell me no. So I took him in hand, but I did not give him what he really wanted of me." He teases at Barsad with the toy as he says it, presses it past his opening for a few fleeting moments and pulls it out again just as quickly. Barsad whines softly when the action is repeated.  
  
"I used his scarf, his bootlaces, and trussed him up, made him lie out on my cot and kept his head in my lap all night. I had never seen such a look of contentment on a man before while he slurped around my cock. He was near mewling with want by the time morning came, begging me, promising anything if I would just take him, fill him."  
  
With a slow, steady push, Bane works the vibrator past Barsad's hole, smiling at the relieved, near blissful sigh the action gets.  
  
"I told him that the loser does not get to pick the prize, that if he wanted me to own him he would have to show he was worthy of being owned. I sent him back to his bunk with his cock aching with dissatisfaction between his legs."  
  
John can tell from the way Barsad's body suddenly jerks that the slight curve in the toy is now sliding by his prostate. Bane takes it as a signal to start working the toy with slow thrusts that make it glide smoothly into Barsad who cries out in delight at the attention, unable to do anything to assist or make Bane go faster, only able to be open and take.  
  
"I told him to obey my word as law each day and to come back to me each night, to not touch his cock, because it was no longer his to touch. For a week, I used my lambs beautiful mouth at my leisure and sent him back aching each morning." He smirks suddenly. "His commanding officers commended me. They had never seen one of their men make such a complete turnaround."  
  
"When I finally took him, he screamed for me." Bane's finger lingers over a small button on the vibrator. "Say the words I made you promise to me when I first took you, first filled you and made you mine."  
  
Barsad groans out lowly, his breathing sounding cut off with each quick pant. He licks his lips and looks over at John, catching his eyes and looking back up at the ceiling, saying nothing.  
  
"He's shyer now, John, because you are watching," Bane explains in a low voice. Barsad's eyes flick to him, then to Bane again. "Usually, we don't indulge in such things when we bring another into our bed, but it feels right, doesn't it, John?"  
  
He bobs his head quickly in agreement. He's given in to his urge, jerking over his own cock now, unable to care about if he's going to get teased for it. He's so worked up, and Barsad is gasping, writhing in his bonds as Bane pumps the toy into him, his pace alternating from slow, steady pushes to quick plunges, never enough for Barsad to get used to one or the other.  
  
Bane looks over at him, his eyes feeling like they're picking John apart, seeing everything inside of him. He watches him jerking his hand roughly over his dick, and to his relief he looks pleased. He looks back to Barsad, places a hand on his belly and thrusts the toy into him faster, clearly delighted by how it's working Barsad up even more. His cock is an angry red between his thighs, desperate for relief, a thin trail of precome pooling out and down his side. Bane rubs it into his skin. His voice is raspy when he speaks.  
  
"John is touching himself to the sight of you, Barsad, to how much you desire me, how you open yourself up for me, so wantonly, always wanting me, needing me." Bane's finger finally presses down on the button of the vibrator and John can hear the gentle hum, sees how Barsad goes still before a shudder wracks through his bound body.  
  
"Bane!" he cries it out, he pleads with him, to be touched more, to come, until all of the words seem to get tangled up, falling from his lips in a babble of desperate need.  
  
"Say it, Barsad," Bane speaks roughly, possessively, his hand putting a firm, rubbing pressure just below Barsad's stomach, letting the curved tip of the vibrator assault Barsad from the inside while he pets him. John can see how this isn't going to take long, how between the ropes and the touches, Bane's teasing and now the vibration against his prostate, Barsad's entire body is tightening up, ready to snap. John feels his own responding, the pressure in his balls drawing tight, and the coil of hot pleasure in his belly urging him to stroke himself faster.  
  
It's not a shout when Barsad says what Bane wants, it's a whisper, nearly shy sounding, but so open and honest that it digs into John and he's nearly shaking from the intensity in it.  
  
"Please," he whispers, and Bane stops his hand, everything is still and silent in the room save for the soft buzz and Barsad's even softer words. "I'm _yours_ ; I'm your little lamb."  
  
Bane wraps his hand around him, three slow pulls and Barsad is keening, head snapped back and nearly screaming as his orgasm rips out of him and paints his chest.  
  
John is right behind him. He shudders, unable to help chanting out 'fuck,oh _fuck'_ shakily as his come pulses from him and makes a mess of the blanket.  
  
Barsad sags in his bindings, limp, like Bane has wrung every drop from him, and judging by the thick streaks of come on him, maybe he really has. John's still feeling pretty shaky himself, just holding onto his cock and panting when he sees Bane unzipping his pants, guiding his cock out even as he rubs over Barsad's knee.  
  
"Can you handle a little more, lamb?" he asks, his tone serious and his eyes dark. When Barsad nods, tries to say yes but nothing more than a murmur comes out, Bane doesn't waste time, sliding the toy from him and slicking himself. John feels an unreasonable spark of jealousy when Bane presses against Barsad's ass bare, skin against skin when he urges his hips forward, growling low as he guides himself into Barsad who is, of all things, smiling, whispering out a soft thank you, and there's something that passes between their looks that for a moment is so strong that even John can feel it.  
  
It's gone in an instant, tucked away safe and sound between them, but still felt when Bane surges forward, beginning to thrust roughly into Barsad below him, holding onto his spread thighs tightly. Barsad's cock is soft and still spent against his belly, his eyes closed in concentration, savoring the feeling of Bane taking him even though he's spent, even though part of it has to be borderline painful on his oversensitive nerves now.  
  
Bane murmurs something low, his hand leaving Barsad's thigh to stroke his neck and Barsad is nodding, pulling at the ropes around his wrists, making a soft, pleading noise. "Please, let me touch you for it."  
  
Bane shushes him softly, pressing his fingers over his lips. "Be still, my lamb, take."  
  
"I can't, I can't." Barsad shakes his head, seeming to have reached the end of his momentary calm, and his voice is wavering. "Please, just a touch."  
  
Bane relents, his hands going to Barsad's bound ones. He laces their fingers together and leans forward, squeezing Barsad's fingers tightly as he lets go, fucks into him ruthlessly. Barsad is shaking under him, his body being rocked forward on the bed when Bane shouts, surging forward until he's spilling into Barsad.  
  
There's stillness in the room after that, not quiet, Bane is gasping for air, Barsad is moaning softly under him, and John's own breathing is still not quite right, but there is a sense of an almost tranquil calm as everyone takes a moment to recover.


	10. Chapter 10

Bane slips out of Barsad, and John watches as his come trickles out of him and onto the blankets. When Bane whispers to Barsad that he did well, the look on the man's face in response is almost serene. He carefully unties his arms and legs from the bedposts, lowering them with the same care. Barsad winces at the sudden change in blood flow and Bane dutifully rubs his limbs until he's eased.  
  
"Come closer, John, let me show you."  
  
He does and he's mesmerized as Bane slowly unwinds the coils of rope on Barsad's arms and legs. It leaves a winding trail of twisted compression marks all along his skin; it's strangely beautiful, and when Bane nods in consent he runs his fingers across the ones on Barsad's arms.  
  
"How long do they last?"  
  
"It depends; sometimes a few hours, sometimes he still has them in the morning, hidden under his clothing."  
  
He swears softly, wondering just how many times he's served Barsad his drinks while these claiming marks lingered on his skin.  
  
"Do they hurt?" He takes a chance and strokes against the ones on Barsad's knees.  
  
Barsad shakes his head. With the ropes no longer holding him up, he looks even more spent, and there's a faint tremor running through his limbs. When Bane gathers him into his lap and against his chest, his hand holds on tightly to his arm.  
  
"They don't, they feel good, like when one wraps a rubber band around their finger too long and it is finally released." He says it in a mumble, like he's half asleep or in a fog.  
  
"Oh." He nods in understanding, and the room is quiet again as Bane inspects Barsad's body then asks if John will bring them a damp cloth.  
  
"It is one of the few things he cannot endure," Bane explains while he gently wipes the sweat and come from Barsad's body. "One of our few rules is that he cannot be left alone while he is bound, or after it."  
  
Barsad presses forward to kiss Bane in response, and when he opens his eyes they're looking clearer than they were before, like he's settling down from whatever sort of endorphin high he's been on. John cleans himself up and he helps Bane strip off the top layer of bedding so they can lie down.  
  
He wasn’t aware his fingers are shaking until Bane reaches to take them lightly in his hand.  
  
"Are you alright?" He pulls him down against him to lie with Barsad, each resting their head on a side of his chest. Barsad reaches and brushes his fingers against his arm.  
  
"Perhaps he needs after care, as well," Barsad suggests softly. "It was likely more intense than what he's experienced before, even if he did not directly join in."  
  
He doesn't understand what Barsad means, but Bane's fingers sift through his hair, his hand rubs the back of his neck, and he feels himself settle more with them.  
  
"That was just…" his voice trails off.  
  
"Intense?" Barsad asks as he sighs and lets Bane rub gently at the marks on his arms.  
  
"Jesus Christ, yeah." He nods in agreement. "Also, if you put me in any of those maneuvers from earlier, I'm pretty sure I'd snap in half."  
  
Bane laughs quietly then looks at him seriously. "I would not wrestle with you like I would Barsad. We are trained to fight, and Barsad enjoys the thrill of fighting tooth and nail to avoid submission almost as much as he enjoys finally being tied down for it."  
  
Barsad makes a pleased noise and doesn't deny it.  
  
"So, it's not going down like a grudge match if I say you can tie me up?" he checks, just to be sure.  
  
"It 'goes down' however you would like it to, but only when and if you are ready to try it. You have to be comfortable with the idea before anything else," Bane explains. "What Barsad and I have is different, explored, we understand now just what the other can take. It looks rough, because it is rough, and that is what works between us, it is what is our 'comfortable.' You need to find yours."  
  
John nods in understanding, and as he spends more time with them, he starts to explore what they talked about, his 'comfortable' and how they make him feel.

He gets very comfortable with them.  
  
Comfortable enough that a few weeks in they've cleared out a drawer for him, comfortable enough that sometimes he comes over and they don't have sex, they just curl up and sleep tangled together, enough that he gets handed the phone one day and suddenly spends an hour on the phone with Talia questioning his intentions endlessly, much to his confusion and indignation until he finally seems to garner her approval.  
  
It gets comfortable in more intimate ways, too; the way he knows he can curl his hand around Barsad's shoulder for support when he lies out on his back and Bane slides into him, stretches him so full that it makes his eyes want to cross. When he peeks at Barsad, there’s a knowing grin on his face, understanding exactly how good John feels right then, and he helps hold his leg spread so that John can just close his eyes  and enjoy every minute of it.  
  
He lets them tie his hands behind his back two months in. His entire body feels like it's vibrating with eager, nervous energy for it, each careful loop of rope around his wrists getting a quick, excited breath. Barsad kisses his cheek, teases him as he carefully ties off the knot.  
  
"You look beautiful in blue, John," he says as he guides him onto his belly and wide spread knees. They take turns with him until he's a shuddering wreck under them, until he's begging hoarsely, and they show him a tiny bit of mercy, letting him come all over Bane's stroking hand.  
  
When they've both had their fun and he's being untied, he's pretty sure he's got the stupidest grin plastered onto his face as it's pressed against the sheets, but he's too dazed to care. Barsad laughs not unkindly, more in understanding when he rolls him onto his back and sees his expression.  
  
"Good?"  
  
He mumbles tiredly in agreement and gets tucked in between him. The next morning at work he can't stop sliding his hands under his shirt sleeves to feel the faint marks left on him.  
  
Sometimes, more than sometimes, he doesn't really get what he is to them, if he's just something fun to explore and bring to bed, and God he hopes not, because this is becoming intense for him. He has to keep reminding himself not to get in too deep, that these are married men and they might not say the words in front of him but they're so deeply in love that it doesn't ever have to be said.  
  
So sometimes he just doesn't really know if there are any sort of rules going on, and he's a little scared to ask, because he likes what's going on, he more than likes what's going on, and he doesn't want to ruin it. He doesn't want to overstep his boundaries, but he is also willing to take whatever they're going to give him. He hasn't felt this close to anyone before, not any previous girlfriends or boyfriends, not any friends period, and that hurts a little, when sometimes he feels like he's a third wheel, that he could get cut out easily and they would be just fine without him.   
  
They're eating dinner, sitting around on stools by the kitchen counter, not the couch for once. Talia will be coming in a few weeks and Bane, in what Barsad has called ‘a clear display of carefully hidden worry,’ has insisted that they try to behave more 'civilized' for her joining them, which apparently means not eating on the couch. Her room is ready. They'd managed to schedule a day for them all to have off and spend it painting the room a clay-red that Barsad told him Talia will enjoy, and setting up a new dresser and bed for her.  
  
He picks at his food a little uncertainly, only partly because it's kale and even if there's bacon with it, it's awfully green looking. Barsad reaches to poke at him playfully with his fork.  
  
"It will not kill you, I promise," he says, then tilts his head when John doesn't respond much. "What is it?"  
  
"It's nothing." He shakes his head, thinking about work earlier, but neither of them seems to buy it. Bane watches him expectantly until John finally looks down at his plate quietly. It should be a little scary how easy it is for Bane to coax him into doing things without having to say a word, but Bane just seems to have that effect on people.  
  
"A guy came into work today… he asked for my number," he finally admits, quickly taking a drink of his water to distract himself. The guy, Bruce, he said his name was, had been extremely good looking, handsome, suave, and even almost vaguely familiar in a way John couldn't trace.   
  
Expensive slacks, slicked back brown hair, scuffs on his shoes which was strange for clearly being able to afford not to get them dirty.  
  
Great ass.  
  
John told him his order was blackberries and cream with spinach and flax seeds.  
  
The place had been quieter, and John had no problem exchanging teasing flirtation, not actually expecting anything from it until Bruce had surprised him by asking him out.  
  
It had kind of been a smack of reality. He didn't know, didn't have a fucking clue if it was actually ok to give Bruce his number; was that cheating? Was it just expected he'd go out dating? He had no idea, and the whole thing had settled uncomfortably in his stomach and led to him picking at his food.  
  
He hadn't wanted to mention it because he was a little scared to hear the answer. It’s out there now, though, and Barsad pauses in his eating, shares a look with Bane.  
  
"And what happened then?" Bane asks as he sets down his fork and focuses his full attention on John.   
  
"I," he hesitates, "I just brushed him off."  
  
Barsad shakes his head, and John knows that that would be too simple. "What did you say, John."  
  
"I just—" He doesn't want to say, but Barsad puts his hand on his shoulder and he blurts it out, "I told him I was taken."  
  
He winces when neither of them says anything right away, and then Bane's hand goes to the back of his neck, giving it a reassuring squeeze that fills him with a sense of relief.  
  
"Good."  
  
"You are very taken," Barsad agrees, leaning in close and kissing him.  
  
"Am I?" he can't help but ask. It gets a sound of agreement from Bane.  
  
"Perhaps we should talk about this, John. It seems like something that has been on your mind, and that this was a good way for the topic to be broached."  
  
"I hate talking." He picks at his food instead.  
  
"You love talking," Barsad argues, "you don't like being emotionally vulnerable." He smirks suddenly. "Just physically."  
  
"Yeah, cause you're one to fucking talk about that," he snaps out irritably because really, pot, kettle black there, but Barsad doesn't rise to the obvious baiting.  
  
"We like having you here with us, John," Bane says.  
  
"Well, I like being here," John points out. "That really seems to be the end of the conversation, to me."  
  
"There is no need to be obtuse." Bane places a hand on his arm. "Do you need some time to collect your thoughts?"  
  
He twitches visibly. They'd found out already that on his bad days he could have an angry streak in him, something that he tried to stamp down but sometimes just came out when the day was long and frustrating and he couldn't clamp down on it in time.  
  
They'd certainly found out a way to calm him down, though, to let him zone out and relax so he could get himself under control and not lose his temper. It was amazing what having his arms and legs bound and being laid out for some quiet time could do. He'd agreed to it cautiously after an outburst; the next time he seemed on the verge of having one, unless he outright said no, they'd tie him.  
  
Being unable to pace around and rage was infuriating for the first five minutes or so, and he cursed them out as badly as Barsad got when Bane was taking him down, but after that? He understood Barsad a lot better. When there was nothing he could do but just lay there and let them run their fingers through his hair, listen to soft music in a dim room, he mellowed quickly, fell asleep within minutes of surrendering and when he woke, they coaxed him into talking about his day, what had upset him.  
  
Years of therapy were wasted when apparently John just needed a bit of rope and some patience.  
  
Not that it FIXED him, but it did calm him down a lot faster than going out for a walk did, or stewing around inside his apartment. They've done it a couple of times now, and he supposes that's probably weird, but it works and he likes it. He likes so many things they do to him, and how safe it feels to explore things with them. John doesn't trust easily, so he sometimes doesn't even understand how they've managed to get him to this point, where he's managed to fucking fall for two married men that make him feel better than any other relationship has.  
  
It's a twisted realization, and it makes him shake his head in response to Bane's question. "I'm fine. There's just nothing to talk about."  
  
He shrugs away a little from Bane's touch and jumps when the response is for Barsad to hook his foot around John's stool, tug it so they're close together. "John, we like having you here, with us. Is that what you need to hear? We do not have a name for what this is, but in these months you have become a part of our life."  
  
"You've said you've had other people, before me." His stomach feels a little queasy when he manages to get that out. They've had others, and they're not around now; maybe they got bored. Maybe a third just didn't hold their interest after a while, and they went back to being two until someone fresh came along.  
  
"We have," Bane answers carefully, "and you have had other people before us."  
  
"Well, yeah, I wasn't exactly a fucking virgin. I just mean, you've had other people, now you don't."  
  
"Sometimes it is as though English is not YOUR native tongue," Bane practically mutters. "What are you trying to tell us, John?"  
  
"NOTHING, I'm not trying to tell you anything. I already said I was done talking about this."  
  
Bane's hand goes to his chin, cupping it and rubbing his thumb over the swell of his bottom lip slowly. It's a sign that John has come to learn means that Bane doesn't understand something he's said but he's trying to.  
  
John feels a little bad that he seems to have to make the gesture a lot.  
  
Barsad, though, intervenes with more insight than John would like. "Are you worried, perhaps, that because they are not with us now that you will not be with us later?"  
  
"Everyone gets bored," he says quietly, muffled by Bane's thumb so that it's barely audible.   
  
"John," Bane seems to understand. He stands and wraps his arms around his shoulders, enveloping him. John sighs, relaxing. He always does when one of them holds him like this. "We would never simply get bored of you, or discard you."  
  
"You are not just a fling," Barsad agrees, taking his hands and pressing a brief kiss to the knuckles. "The things we have shared with you, have done with you, are things we would never do with someone brought home just for some fun."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I have never tied my lamb up in front of another, John." Bane rubs his hands along his arms. "Not even those we have been with on many occasions. It has only seemed natural with you. You fit with us, and we have no intentions of letting you wander off."  
  
His eyes sting just a little at that, relief working loose the knots in his stomach that he didn't realize how long he'd been carrying around. "I'm not going to wander off."  
  
Barsad gives him a soft, warm smile. "Good. Now eat your kale."


	11. Chapter 11

That night they're more than extra attentive. They make it all about him and, well, John can be selfish enough to enjoy that. They pass him back and forth playfully, like he's a toy they can't get enough of, then they lay him down and assault him together, not a bit of him untouched until he's a shivering wreck.  
  
When they're curled up and he's got his arms wrapped around Barsad, he feels like he's practically glowing with contentment. Bane reaches to tousle his hair and gives him a fond look. He looks away and hides his face against Barsad's arm when he realizes he can't contain a giddy little smile at the realization that it's the same sort of fond look he sees Bane always giving Barsad.  
  
Barsad guides his head up, his eyes knowing. "Always you hide those smiles, John, but it is ok, I like feeling them against my skin."  
  
He didn't realize that he did that, or that they'd noticed. He doesn't smile a lot. He used to, but it had been mostly fake. Now, when he smiles, it's rare and real and just for them. Barsad kisses his jaw, noses around his ear playfully before he kisses it, too, and whispers.  
  
"Move in with us, John."  
  
He makes a surprised noise and pulls back, looks between them. "But..."  
  
"You barely go back to your apartment as it is," Bane points out reasonably. "This is where you prefer to be, and it's where we want you."  
  
"Half of your stuff is already here," Barsad teases, and he laughs a little at that, realizing he's right and not exactly sure when that happened.  
  
"Talia, though..."  
  
"Is more than capable of understanding. She is looking forward to meeting our third, and you will get along very well," Bane assures him.  
  
He lets them see the smile this time.  
  
"Ok."  
  
Barsad drops him off on his way to the range. They decided that, since he had an off day, he'd work on packing up his stuff, talking to his landlord. It would be nice to only be paying part of a rent instead of all of it in a tiny place he barely ever used anymore. They tried to say he didn't have to pay rent, but he wasn't putting up with that kind of bullshit. He'd pay his share and be happy to do it.  
  
He bounds up the stairs to his apartment. He's been there a long while, and it will be weird to leave it. It will feel weird to live with someone else, too; he hasn't done that since his days at St. Swithin’s. This is different, though, much different. He jams the key into the lock, knowing how much it likes to stick when given the chance.  
  
He raises his eyebrows in mild surprise when it slides in effortlessly and clicks open. Maybe the landlord has finally decided to do something about the locks. Kind of doubtful. He flicks on the light and it seems even less doubtful that the landlord had oiled the lock and then proceeded to go into John's home and tear everything apart in it.  
  
I mean, it's not like he's late on the rent or anything.  
  
He stares at his living room. It was like a neat, orderly hurricane had ripped through it. Everything is meticulously pulled apart and set aside. To what point or purpose, John hasn't a fucking clue. He has a couple of nicer things he's saved up for, but not much, and sure as hell not enough to tear his whole place apart.  
  
Sure not enough for a man to be sitting on the couch waiting for him.  
  
Slick suit, short cropped brown hair, a sliver bracelet peeking out from under his cuff. Shoes shining.  
  
Interestingly, his first instinct isn't smoothie options. It's run. John can appreciate that kind of self preservation instinct in himself.  
  
"Robin John Blake. FBI." He stands calmly from the couch and reaches for the inside of his jacket.  


John punches him and runs.  


Because really, who the fuck pretends to be the FBI?   
  
He races out of his apartment and leaps down the steps, pushing off the banister on the second level like he's been doing for years and landing with a soft smack of his sneakers onto the thin carpet just outside the apartment complex's entrance.  
  
His fingers curl around the bar to pull the door open when he's slammed into it with enough force to punch the air out of his lungs and make his head smack against the metal. A rough pair of hands pins his shoulders to the door, and another wrestles with his hands until he feels the bite of cold metal around his wrists.  
  
Definitely not as nice as cotton rope.  
  
"Assaulting an FBI agent? You're certainly not helping your case, kid," a gruff voice says into his ear and he catches the scent of cigarettes and leather. He puts it together with the hard metal he felt biting into his back when he was shoved against the door. A leather holster; a gun.   
  
Shit.  
  
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" He gasps for air when he's spun around and facing the man he decked and now a woman who looks like she could break him in two with her neatly manicured thumbs. "You're really the fucking FBI?"  
  
Navy business skirt, tailored blouse, black kitten heels and a gold necklace.  
  
The man holds his hand against his jaw and gives him a grim look. "Yeah, and you're in serious trouble, kid." He pulls out a badge and John feels a sinking in his chest when he sees it. That'd be pretty ridiculous to fake. This is either the weirdest robbery he's seen in his life or these are actual FBI agents and he just punched one in the face.   
  
Either way, it's not looking too good when he's led back to his apartment in cuffs.  
  
"The fuck are you doing in my apartment?" he asks. When the woman tries to get him to sit, he shakes his head. He'll stand, thanks.  
  
"We'll be asking the questions for a little while now, Robin," she says smoothly, and John makes a face at the name.  
  
"John."  
  
"John, then. I'm special agent Rosa, and that is special agent Tate," She agrees calmly and has a seat on a chair by the coffee table, opening a folder she has with her. "I believe you know these two men?"  
  
He sits down real fast, slumps really, onto the couch when she slides some photos across the coffee table; Bane, Barsad. They both look younger, Bane isn't scarred yet, and both of them are in militant clothing of some sort, he can't recognize what sort of group, it's a grainy picture and far away as they stand with a group of men, all armed and looking extremely deadly.  
  
"I don't know," he says cautiously, "why?"  
  
Tate comes back from the kitchenette holding a bag of frozen french fries across his cheek and looking kind of rightfully pissed. "Both have been part of certain military factions that are considered a threat to national security."  
  
It feels like the world lurches under his feet, like the couch has dropped out from under him and he's falling with no one to catch him up. He touches the photos and takes a shaky breath, keeping his voice even. "What factions?"  
  
"You're not authorized to know that. What you need to know is that these are very dangerous men, and we need to know what you know about them," Rosa says, and her face is sympathetic. John doesn't buy it for a minute. Her eyes are hungry and her shoulders tight, Tate keeps looking at him with his brows furrowed and his lips clearly holding back a sneer.  
  
She'd want a medium coconut-kale smoothie with flax seed oil. It would taste almost sweet, but it would really be all business and cut to the chase.  
  
And Tate, he wouldn't would be caught dead drinking a smoothie, the pretentious prick.  
  
"They come to the shop sometimes," he finally says. He doesn't really know what else to say. His stomach is in his chest and he can hear the rush of blood pounding through his ears. He doesn't know what the hell is going on. This is surreal. They were in the military before, they said that, but this? He doesn’t understand.  
  
"John, we've been keeping surveillance on you; we know they do more than come to the shop," Rosa states calmly, sliding some more glossy photos across the table. There's a couple of him, out with them, one of Barsad sliding his hand into his walking down a sidewalk, another of him with his feet stretched out across a booth to rest in Bane's lap. Those were public events but private moments, and it feels so violating to see them spread out on a table in front of him, his life being examined without his permission.  
  
"You had no ri—" he stops and bites his tongue. They had every fucking right. This is the FBI. "Why did you take those?" he asks instead.  
  
"Information gathering." Tate says it curtly, tapping his fingers over the photos. "They've probably given you fabricated names. They're known in their group as Bane and Barsad, or were. They've been excommunicated, and as far as we know, have used their illicit connections to settle down here."  
  
"He said that he's from America, that Bane wasn't," John says weakly, thinking about the rings, about the supposed green card marriage. "I didn't know—"  
  
"You haven't done anything wrong, John," Rosa tells him calmly, gathering the photos up, "and your first instinct will of course to be to protect them, but these are deadly men. They've killed people; in fact, they've killed a lot of people. Don't think what you have with them is something special. You're expendable."  
  
"You're not the first innocent kid they've picked up and fucked around with." Tate gives him a rather disagreeable look while he sits down.  
  
John holds back a snort even while he feels like they're twisting a knife into his gut. Innocent kid? Yeah, fucking right.  
  
"You know where they are, obviously," he says harshly, "so what the hell do you want from me?"  
  
Tate reaches and uncuffs him finally. "We want your help in gathering information."  
  
"You want me to spy on them," he spits out. "These are 'dangerous men who have killed people,' but you're ok with getting me to spy on them."  
  
"You're closer than we can hope to get," Tate says in a clipped tone, "and we need information."  
  
His world feels like it's fucking crumbling beneath his feet, and he just makes himself keep talking, keep asking questions so that maybe something will actually make sense, because he sure as hell doesn't want to think about this, or what he should do, or how he can feel anger and anxiety warring around in his chest, can only think how good it would feel for them to lay him out on their bed and to help him cool down.   
  
"What sort of information?"   
  
Rosa flips through the files again and pulls out another photo, setting it down in front of him while he rubs at his wrists. "On her."  
  
Talia. She looks young in the photo, younger than what John has seen on their wall, and he wonders if that means something, that they can't get as much information on her as they'd like.  
  
"I'm sure they haven't mentioned her to you," Tate says, "but she's a key figure, and we need to apprehend her."  
  
"You're going to fucking kidnap her?" he asks in disbelief.  
  
"Let me enlighten you, kid." Tate's eyes narrow and he picks up the photo. "This girl? Her father is a leader in a major, militant, and bloody rebellion going on in a country your shitty little education means you've never even heard of, but has cost more soldiers’ lives than you can probably count."  
  
"So that makes it fucking ok to what, abduct her? Use her to get at her daddy?"  
  
"She's not exactly an innocent little girl in all of this, John," Rosa speaks calmly, the perfect juxtaposition to Tate's cruelness; it's clear why they're partners. "She's older than these photos show. She's nearly eighteen, and she's been a guiding part of her father's plans for some years. She's far from innocent. She's even had hits put out for her, not by us, but by other less civil organizations."  
  
"You've seen Bane's scars, haven't you kid?" Tate slides a newer picture of Bane, him in a hospital, bandages covering his face. "Those are from her. He was her bodyguard for a long while, and a group got close enough to fuck him up real bad while he held them off long enough for her to get away."  
  
His throat gets tight at that. An accident; Bane had said it was an accident. That accident had been getting captured to keep Talia safe. He clears his throat and resists touching the picture like he wants to.  
  
"And that makes it ok."  
  
"That makes it necessary to bring her in for questioning. Our sources tell us she'll be coming to them soon. We need you to find out where and when."  
  
He already knows where and when. They think Bane and Barsad haven't talked about her, but they talk about her to him all the time. He's fucking spent hours on the phone with Talia; Talia who is apparently part of whatever militant faction her father is. They've already made plans for the day she comes. He knows the exact flight, the time, everything. He's already saved up vacation time and set up a three day weekend.  
  
"I can't. I can't do that." He shakes his head. "You said they're dangerous. You could get me killed."  
  
"You can wear a wire—" Rosa starts, and Tate interrupts her.  
  
"Yeah, where we gonna put it on the kid? I doubt he keeps his clothes on for long."  
  
"Hey, FUCK you," he growls, and Rosa puts her hand up to quiet them both.  
  
"The wire can stay in his jacket. They won't suspect anything, so it can be a bigger one, one that can pick up wider ranges of sound. That way, it doesn't matter if it stays on him or not."  
  
"A microphone isn't going to make me feel safe." Bane and Barsad make him feel safe. He's been trusting them, letting them tie him up and make him more vulnerable than he's ever felt in his life.  
  
"We'll have someone on the other end of it. Someone close by who can intervene if you give them a codeword, or if things go bad."  
  
"And what, you just expect me to fucking ask them about her?"  
  
"I doubt you get a lot of talking done," Tate spits out, "but no, you're going to ask them about themselves, different things that could get them to give information, and if that doesn't work, we want you to rifle through their things. I'm sure there are moments you're left alone there."  
  
"Why don't you just arrest them?"  
  
"Because this is our best chance of finding out information. If we take them in, she won't come."  


He hates this. He fucking hates this so much. Those fucking agents and their words are repeating over and over again as he packs up his boxes.  
  
 _You're not the first innocent kid they've picked up and fucked around with_.  
  
 _These are deadly men._  
  
Don't think what you have with them is something special. You're expendable.  
  
He's not. He's not fucking expendable. He just has to keep telling himself that. Expendable isn't moving in with, expendable means they wouldn't have told him about Talia, or had him talk to her, expendable means they wouldn't make him feel so goddamn good and safe.  
  
He slams a few more things into another box. He's angry because there's a wire in his jacket, and he just doesn't know what the fuck to do about that.


	12. Chapter 12

He can't even be mad at Bane and Barsad for lying to him; mainly because they haven’t actually lied to him all that much, beyond the green card thing. The things they've told him match up mostly with what he's been told about them. It's just that they left a whole hell of a lot out, but then, so did he. He didn't exactly mention his upbringing, his parents, or the boy's home. That wasn't stuff you just brought up.  
  
But maybe they could have not made him fucking fall for them when they were hiding from the FBI and God only knows what other groups. That would have been nice, because now John feels like his guts have been torn out and he's not angry at them, but he sure is fucking angry, which is almost worse, because his anger is aimless and stuck in his bones where he can't claw it out.  
  
He takes the worst of it out on a wall. He's definitely not getting his security deposit back.  
  
Bane texts him.  
  
 _Here._  
  
John has always appreciated the directness and how different and similar Barsad and Bane are in the things they do. Both of them prefer to text, but Bane's texts are more rare and less snarky than Barsad’s. They’re pretty much just instructions or information. Sometimes they're more... exciting instructions.  
  
 _I have a long lunch, take your break and send me pictures of you touching yourself in the bathroom._  
  
That one had been... interesting. His favorite perhaps had been,  
  
 _Barsad is home early. Enjoy these pictures of him_

followed by some pictures of Barsad bound and his mouth stuffed with Bane's cock.  


He appreciates the conciseness.  


'Here,' though, means that they've come to pick him up and are waiting. He takes a breath and grabs a box. They decided since he still has till the end of the month they'd move him in slowly, a box at a time. It was exciting this morning, but now he's queasy because he still doesn't know what to do, but he sure as fuck knows he can't just help the FBI take Talia, not when he knows how much she means to them.  
  
But John's not exactly sure if these two are "lying to the FBI" good or not.  
  
Unfortunately, John is well aware that he's got some issues and that he's probably going to do it anyway.  
  
He chucks his box into the trunk of the car and his jacket accidently goes with it.  


Oops.

  
When he gets into the back seat, Barsad is there and he maybe practically mauls him, straddling his lap and wiggling close, pressing kisses all over his neck. Barsad laughs lowly and grips his hips, encouraging him.  
  
"Someone missed us."  
  
He leans in close to his ear and presses his hand flat against his mouth. His coat's in the trunk, but he has no idea how well that microphone works.  
  
"You have got some major fucking explaining to do," he hisses as quietly as he can into his ear. "And you better be damn grateful I'm not a sellout."  
  
Barsad's hands go still, his eyes deadly serious and, well, fuck, there goes that magical little bubble where he could hope that everything that happened today had a huge ridiculous explanation. His fingers bite tightly into his hips for a moment, enough to make him wince and his eyes focus on him before he touches over John's eyelid, then pauses to touch over his ear.  
  
John's confused by the questioning look he receives, and the motion is repeated, subtle, like he's just stroking over him, but then he understands, shakes his head and pulls lightly on Barsad's ear, points to the trunk. Barsad nods and John sees him looking past him, sharing a look with Bane.  
  
"What shall we have for dinner, John?"  
  
He blinks then realizes, shrugging. "I'm guessing you're going to say no to burgers."  
  
"I could make turkey burgers," Barsad suggests, and it's weird to be having such a normal conversation.  
  
"Ew. I refused to eat ground up bird. It is absolutely not an acceptable replacement for ground up cow."  
  
Barsad laughs quietly, pulling him closer so their bodies are flush together. It's really not a good way for Bane to start driving off, and John is sort of surprised he's not being a stickler about the seatbelt thing like he usually is. It's sort of telling in a worrying way, but Barsad's hand wraps around his wrist and gives it a reassuring squeeze.  
  
"Perhaps just this once we can have your precious fast food."  
  
"Fuck yes." He smirks. It's not like he hasn't been eating it on the sly anyway. Man does not live on smoothies, kale and lentils alone, even though Bane and Barsad are a lot harder to convince of that.  
  
It's surprisingly easy to strike up conversation with them while they're being listened in on. Barsad slips a hand under the back of his shirt and rubs at the base of his spine, rubbing away the tension that's been building in it all day. He wonders if they're good at this because they're used to being bugged.  
  
"You and Barsad can go purchase dinner. I will take your box up and get cleaned up," Bane says when he pulls up to the sidewalk.  
  
"It's ok, I can get it—"  
  
"Bane can handle one box just fine." Barsad smiles and kisses his cheek, squeezes his hip, and he knows that he can tell it was a token protest, so it didn't seem suspicious. It's not like he can't lie.  
  
They switch to the front seat, and Barsad grips the steering wheel, watches as Bane carries the box and his jacket into the apartment. "Are you alright, John?"  
  
He watches Bane disappear into the apartment. "I would really, really, like an explanation as to why the FBI put a wire tap into my jacket and sent me off to spy on you."  
  
His hand leaves the wheel and gives his thigh a squeeze before he puts the car into drive and speaks steadily, watching the road too carefully, avoiding looking at him."You weren't meant to be involved in anything, John. We left that life behind."  
  
"After you were excommunicated?"  
  
Barsad's jaw tightens. "Yes."  
  
"What—"  
  
"It's a very long story. We cannot be gone for too long, or it will be suspicious."  
  
"You're damn well going to tell me something. I am risking a whole lot, you know?"  
  
Barsad glances over at him and his face softens. "I am sorry you got mixed up in our past." He sounds truly regretful, and John knows that this is the last thing any of them wanted. "But I am—we are—grateful that you trusted us enough to warn us."  
  
"Yeah, well." He flushes slightly at the warmth and gratefulness in Barsad's tone. "I trusted you enough to hogtie me, so, I guess this ranks somewhere around there. I hate this, though."  
  
"I would tell you to leave the city, but that would cast suspicion on you," Barsad says, clearly in thought. "You cannot stay with us, though. We will make it look as though our breakup is on our side."  
  
His stomach lurches. "No. Wait, what?"  
  
"John—"  
  
"No. Just no." He shakes his head, angry. "No fucking way. I just basically lied to the FBI for you. I swear to God, if you break up with me, I will make your life more hell than they ever can."  
  
Barsad stops at a red light and stares at him, a slow, rueful smile spreading over his face. "You would, too, wouldn't you, you little troublemaker?"  
  
He smirks ruthlessly for a moment and their eyes both sparkle with mischief before they get more solemn.  
  
"John, this is not a game. This is very serious. If you are caught helping us, it could go very badly for you."  
  
"Then I won't get caught. Barsad," he hesitates, "they don't want you. They want Talia."  
  
It's a good thing they're stopped. John's pretty sure the car would have come to a screeching halt otherwise. The look on Barsad's face is cold, ugly, not even what he sees when Bane is wresting him into submission. It's pure killer, and it makes John shrink away a little, feel uncomfortable for the first time with him. It passes quickly, though, so fast John almost wonders if it was ever there at all.  
  
His voice is tight but calm when he speaks. "They will not have her."  


Burgers or not, he's really not that hungry for dinner. It's hard to relax when he knows they're being listened to. Barsad didn't explain much in the car, either.  
  
 _"Just know that we would never hurt you, John."_  
  
Well yeah, he's not an idiot. If they wanted to they could have hurt him a dozen times over. It's why he's helping them and not heading for the hills.  
  
Though when Barsad calmly passes Bane a note with the information John gave him, he almost wishes he had run to the hills with his tail tucked between his legs. He never, ever, wants to see Bane that angry again.  
  
While they eat there's some conversation, but John watches as Bane and Barsad write back and forth on a piece of paper together. He's not sure how exactly they're able to multitask two conversations so well, especially when he leans over and sees the marks on the paper aren't even in the English alphabet.  
  
It's kind of not fair. He'd like to know what's going on, but when he makes an angry gesture towards the paper and reaches for the pencil he gets a quick head shake from Barsad, who traces the word 'code' onto his skin. He begrudgingly gets it. If the house is searched or the paper is found, those agents won't know what's being said, but still, he hates being left out of this.  
  
He can't fully hold back his sigh after eating and Bane pulls him into his lap. He looks quieter, less of his calm that helps to ground out John's, but that's more than understandable. It's selfish to expect more than that. He knows how much Talia means to both of these men, and the longer he has to think about it the more he has no idea what can be done in this situation. Will they have to run? Move away to another country? His stomach sinks at the thought of them leaving him behind.  
  
Bane sifts his fingers through his hair, his hand coming around to cradle the back of his neck while he kisses him, warmly, tenderly, like he can sense all of the worry curling up in the pit of John's stomach and he's trying to soothe it. He responds in kind, wrapping his arms around Bane's neck and sighing his name, reveling in the tingling trail of sensation left on his skin as Bane kisses down the corner of his jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there and placing another kiss.  
  
"We could turn in early?" Barsad suggests, and John can hear the desire in his tone, knows that they're being watched with his eyes lidded in appreciation at the sight. Turn in early is definitely code for not going to bed at all, and oh God, that's tempting, but there's the little factor of there being someone recording what they're doing and saying and when he pulls back to try to say he's too tired as an excuse, he catches Bane's look.  
  
The bastard knows. They both do; Bane's eyes are possessive and his hand has slipped down to his ass, squeezing over it firmly. They want John on that recording, coming apart for them. He gets harder way faster than he should.  
  
Fucking perverts.  
  
Fucking perverts who have him well trained, now, to respond to it.  
  
He goes to sleep that night exhausted and praying to any god that will listen that what just transpired will never, ever be used as evidence in a court of law.


	13. Chapter 13

The days are filled with a quiet tension. John gets the plan in little pieces. No texts, no phone calls, no speaking about it unless one of them brings it up first, since they're clearly the experts here. It becomes a strange world of quick words exchanged when he's "forgotten his jacket upstairs" and has to run back to get it, a couple little notes of information that are disposed of meticulously, some words traced against his skin in the dark before bed.  
  
It'd be kind of cool if it wasn't actually a dangerous situation he's in. He feels like a spy. He is a spy, a double agent, really, and hell if that isn't what every kid wants to be growing up, at least for a little while.  
  
From what's been given to him, and he KNOWS they haven't given him the whole story—not from mistrust, but because, adorably and frustratingly, they seem to think they need to shelter him—they are going to pick up Talia on the same day as planned. A message was sent to her, though, and instead of going by plane she will be arriving by boat and they will pick her up at the docks.  
  
They're going to leave little hints in conversation. Not enough so that it seems like John is plying them for information, but enough to plod the agents in the right direction of going to sniff around at the airport.  
  
The day _after_ Talia arrives, anyway, because they'll be long gone by then. Out of Gotham, which is a little nerve-wracking.  
  
Especially because he's kind of agreed to go with them. It will be later, after things die down. They're going to make it look like Bane and Barsad had suspected something and split, leaving John alone and more than a little scuffed up, at his own insistence to sell the show. It sucks, but he can wait, he WILL wait, and then he'll join them.  
  
That idea sends a nervous flutter through his chest. He's never even been outside of Gotham before. They have connections, though, and it isn't like he has his heart set on being a smoothie operator for the rest of his life, though if he's honest he would kind of miss parts of it. Gotham hasn't exactly been great to him, but it's been home. On the other hand...  
  
He sort of likes the sense of adventure.  
  
"I'm hungry; let’s go out for some pizza," Barsad suggests, and John flicks his eyes towards him, sees him nod.  
  
"Don't worry about your jacket, it's a warm night."  
  
He takes a deep breath and nods.  
  
It gets left on the coat rack. Oops.  
  
That's all the signal he gets that they're going to pick up Talia now. He didn't expect anything more. He's known well enough that today is the day, but they hadn't given him specifics, if it'd be morning, noon, or night, if he needed to do anything, or even if he was coming with them.  
  
Night, apparently, as the sun is just now starting to tuck itself away, and yes, it seems he might just get to come along. He's glad for the time.  
  
He knows today is the last day he's going to be seeing them for a while. He feels hopeless when he realizes he misses them already. He's glad they had the night before, when there hadn't been any ties but Barsad had grabbed onto his hips tightly and urged him to ride him until he was clawing at his chest, and Bane had crushed him down against the bed and pounded into him until he felt like a fucking puddle of goo on the bed.  
  
God, he's going to miss the sex while he's busy missing them.  
  
He swallows when Barsad soundlessly lifts up one of the floor boards in the kitchen and pulls out a handgun and a leather holster, carefully fitting them on under his own jacket and handing another to Bane. He knew they were there, but it's a little unnerving to see them out. He knows they know how to use them, knows Barsad's job here and before as a sniper, but John doesn't like guns much, and it's been a long time since he last saw one being fired.  
  
It stirs up some unpleasant memories.  
  
He knows that there's also a rifle meticulously packed away under the boards, and that Barsad absolutely hates knowing it's going to be left behind. They have barely taken anything with them, not wanting to risk it if there's surveillance suddenly wondering why they're taking suitcases or boxes out of their apartment. As it is, John has already taken out a bag of things that would be considered keepsakes, photographs, some small items of sentimental value, disguised as a bag of trash, and discreetly transferred it to his own apartment for them. He feels bad when he looks around the apartment; even with the pictures gone, it's clear Bane and Barsad were ready to settle down here, and there are a lot of memories on the shelves.  
  
Now Talia won't even get to see the room they painted for her.  
  
Barsad drives. John demands that Bane sits in the back with him so he can kiss him on the way to the docks. It's selfish, they should totally be talking, discussing things, but he spends his time sucking and biting at scarred lips, leaving them shiny and swollen, determined to make Bane feel him tomorrow when they're apart.  
  
He might have also had the same determination the night before, when he sucked and scraped his teeth against the crux of Barsad's neck mercilessly, biting until the man was growling at him and he could see the deep purple and red he left behind.  
  
Neither of them seems to mind that he wants to give them both his own version of a going away present.  
  
Barsad waits in the driver's seat, car on and his fingers resting on the stick in case they need to make a fast getaway. One night. He's going to spend one night with them in a hotel room under a false name. They want him to have a chance to meet Talia, to spend a little time with all of them together, and there's no way John is going to say no to that.  
  
He leans in through the window, gripping the metal of the door beneath his fingers as he gives Barsad a kiss. He's not sure if it'll be inappropriate to kiss them in front of Talia, so he wants one more, knowing it might be the last in a while. Barsad chases his lips when he leans back, stealing another from John before John smiles, silent as he follows Bane to the ship.  
  
It's not exactly meant for passengers, but that isn't all too surprising, and it looks like Talia isn't the only one getting smuggled off of it judging by the fact that they're not the only ones who seem to be waiting for someone on it. He wonders if the FBI or the police or anyone has any idea there seems to be a pretty easy way for people to slip into the country via Gotham. He's not sure he should be surprised, and he's just kind of glad that the FBI isn't as smart as Bane or Barsad.  
  
The pictures he's seen of her are a few years old, but there's no mistaking her when she steps off of the ship. Her brown hair is plaited back neatly in a practical braid, and her eyes scan the crowd below her calmly as she carries a small brown satchel with her.  
  
John watches Bane's face when he first spots her and he feels the happiness in him, the way he goes from scanning the crowd with a quiet, cold efficiency to stilling, to his blue eyes softening and his lips pulling up into a warm smile.  
  
When she sees him, her careful pace quickens just a few steps, almost imperceptible, but John is used to reading people.  
  
Large pomegranate green tea smoothie with honey. He'd suspected when he first talked to her on the phone, but now when he sees her, he knows. Exotic, bitter, with an underlying sweetness if it could be coaxed out.  
  
Like it is now, as Bane scoops her up into his arms, lifting her off of her feet and murmuring a barely audible "little sister" into her hair.  
  
"Bane." She says it with a fond softness, dropping her bag in an instant and wrapping her arms tightly around him.  
  
When she pulls back from Bane's embrace she studies John for a moment. Her lips finally curve into a small smile. John is, frankly, more than a little intimidated by her, but he knew he would be just by the phone calls before they ever factored in her being part of some sort of militant group.  
  
"John. It is good to see you in person."  
  
She places her hands on his shoulders and kisses his cheek. Somehow he ends up feeling like the eighteen year old, which is bullshit because he is in fact older, and an adult, and she just totally carefully straightened his hair and kissed his forehead, and now he feels more seven-ish.  
  
He absolutely doesn't duck his head in embarrassment. Instead, he gives her a polite hi.  
  
Her eyes flash in amusement; clearly, he's managed to entertain her already. Bane tries to take her bag and she will have none of it. Her free hand touches over his lightly, though, thoughtfully.  "I have missed you both very much."  
  
"Thank you for being willing to accept risk, John," she says quietly as they head back to the car. "My brothers have made a wise choice in you."  
  
"Brothers?" he can't help but ask.  
  
Her eyes narrow slightly. "I do not care what my father has foolishly decided. These are my brothers. I would choose instead to live with them both in quiet and calm if I must." As she speaks, she almost makes a face, as though the idea of living a normal, peaceful life strikes her as unpleasant. Maybe it does. "Though I do not think he will keep to his decision for long when he realizes I have left and will not return without you.”  
  
"Talia—"  
  
"Hush. I will not lead a movement without either of you. I would have nothing to fight for and no one I trust at my back."  
  
"Movement?"  
  
"We have not told him everything, Talia," Bane tells her. "It was not my place to decide what information to give him, only yours."  
  
"Then we must have a long conversation tonight, John. For there are many factors to consider, and things I am sure you do not yet understand, but—"  
  
She freezes midsentence, cut off by the sound of gunshots. John's breath catches in his throat. Bane has already swept him behind him in one powerful twist of his hand on his shoulder. His other arm swings back to grasp the Beretta tucked away, out of view. Talia has pulled a knife from her satchel faster than John even has time to react, and he realizes that they've both tucked him between them.  
  
That's a little embarrassing, but he can't waste time thinking about it. Those shots came from the underground parking garage.  
  
"Come," Talia hisses, her voice low with alarm. There are people around, but no one seems to want anything to do with what was heard. Most quickly disappear as the three of them run to the parking garage. The distant squeal of tires assaults their ears, and John’s heart is pounding when he sees the bodies strewn around on the cold pavement surrounding their car, as though they were encircling it like a pack of animals. There are rivulets of blood pooling from them and trickling down into the drainage system, rapidly cooling hands still clutching their firearms.  
  
The door to the car is ajar and there's a thick smear of blood across the remains of  a broken window.  
  
Barsad isn't there. In his place is John's jacket.  
  
Maybe FBI is exactly as smart as Bane and Barsad.


	14. Chapter 14

He stands there stunned as Bane's face contorts into anger, his grip on his gun going white with pressure. Talia's hand goes to his back, her lips tight.  
  
"Anger will not return him."  
  
"If they have hurt him—"  
  
There's blood inside the car. There's a lot of blood inside of the car, and there are no bodies in there.  
  
John's mind is reeling with information. His brain keeps going to the bodies. He can smell the blood now. That's been a long time, and it's making him feel sick, like he could throw up the old memories.

  
He takes slow breaths as Talia kneels down, inspects one of the bodies. In the distance there are sirens, someone finally having called the police.  
  
Her face is tight with tension as she pulls a red scarf from one of the men. John doesn't understand how this happened. Barsad wouldn't have just started firing on agents, would he? They would have had to have fired first, right? It wouldn't have made sense the other way; he would have driven off first.  
  
Also, he's pretty sure the FBI wouldn't have a mini Uzi as standard issue, or a grenade strapped to their belt. "Why the fuck would the FBI bring all of this?" He's trying to focus on questions, not the blood.  
  
"Because they are not the FBI," Talia states in a clipped tone. The sirens are getting closer, and she ushers them into the car. John feels safety glass crunch under the seat of his jeans when they peel out of the garage. 

Not the FBI? It takes him a moment to comprehend just how bad that is.

Not FBI, which means they're not playing by the rules of the FBI.  
  
"Who are they? What are they going to do to Barsad?" He twists around and digs his fingers into the leather of the arm rest as he watches a police car pull into the garage as they exit. It follows, sirens blaring.  
  
"The league."  
  
"Talia, it could not possibly be your own father," Bane argues, but his eyes are dark, worried.  
  
No one tells him what they're going to do to Barsad.  
  
"Much has happened since your excommunication, Bane." Talia tells them as she maneuvers the car into an alleyway far too narrow for such things. She curves sharply; the sirens become a thing in the distance. "Our group has splintered into smaller factions, at war with one another over whose ideals are the most righteous. Clearly, one has decided that I am a bargaining chip to sway my father."  
  
"Jesus," Blake swears, feeling like a complete fuck-up. "I was so stupid. I'm supposed to be so good at reading people." They trusted him to be right about this.  
  
"Perhaps you did know." Bane puts a hand onto his shoulder and his fingers are flexing restlessly, like he wants to pace around but has nowhere to do it. "Your first instinct was to run from them, to fight. They only lulled you after, John." He shakes his head regretfully. "You are not trained to know the difference. It was our fault that we did not question you further, did not explore the possibility of another group’s involvement."  
  
"It was your fault you were stupid enough to trust me, you mean," he spits out bitterly.  
  
"How will self pity bring Barsad home to us?" Talia asks sharply, and John bites his tongue, knowing she's right.  
  
"What the fuck are we going to do?"  
  
"You are not doing anything." Bane's hand tightens on him.  
  
He jams his elbow into his ribs and gives him an angry glare. "Don't even think you're leaving me out of this. If I can help—"  
  
"John, you are not trained to deal with these things." Talia's voice is calmer than Bane's, but firm.  
  
"Then let me help you plan. You can't just expect me to what, go into hiding or something."  
  
From Bane's look, that's pretty much exactly what he expected.   
  
"I can help." He can still see the blood coating the broken window; the wind rips through it and hits his cheek as they drive. He tries not to, but his voice cracks. "Please let me help."

____________________

  
"Are you fucking kidding me? You want to do a hostage negotiation in a smoothie shop?" That is like, the lamest idea ever. These guys suck at this, objectively speaking.  
  
He's sitting on the bed of the hotel room while Bane stands by the window, guarding it. He hasn't put his gun down since they first heard those shots.  
  
"It gives us an advantage to pick the place ourselves." He sounds focused but distant as his gaze never leaves the window. "You know the store inside and out, and can tell us everything about it."  
  
"It's not exactly Fort Knox in there."  
  
"It does not have to be." Talia pauses her phone call to glance over at him. She's by the door, listening closely to any noises outside. She's been making telephone calls for the past hour, and not a single one has been in English. "Explain the layout in as much detail as possible to Bane."  
  
So that's what he does, every table, every stool, every window, fuck, even the compartments where they keep the extra powders and purees. While he talks, Bane trusts him to watch the window so he can close his eyes, visualize. He doesn't really know if he's actually helping or not, but God, he hopes so. He feels fucking useless right now.  
  
"What are you going to do when we get there? How are we even going to tell them to meet us there?"  
  
"They left us the means to do so," Talia says, and John understands.  
  
"My jacket. What are you going to tell them?"  
  
"That I will go with them willingly for Barsad."  
  
He starts to shake his head then stops. "You're not going anywhere with them, are you?"  
  
She gives him a small, cold smile as an answer.  
  
John isn't sure how his life came to this. He's pretty sure it was supposed to be a lot simpler, and he's really sure it's not supposed to involve espionage and frozen fruit, or, less amusingly, the people he loves getting shot.  
  
He'll focus on the whole "loves" thing later. A lot later.  
  
It's been three hours. Three hours, twenty-three minutes since everything went to hell. He wants to ask if Barsad is ok. He wants them to lie and say he's just fine, but he won't make them do that. Talia has already taken his jacket, given them a time, and told them to come for her in exchange for Barsad. He didn’t liked it when she had to specify alive.  
  
It's late, there's no one on the streets, and he lets them into the shop to wait. It's surreal, like watching a movie in real life, all of the implausibility of today lined up neatly next to blenders and foam cups.  
  
He wants to resist asking either of them if they want a smoothie. He knows it's not the time for sarcasm or iced drinks, but he's got worry and more than a little fear building up in his guts which means he sort of needs something to distract himself...  
  
So that's just kinda how they ended up all drinking smoothies by the time Rosa and Tate—not their actual names he's sure, now, but what he has to go with—come in. Very professional. If he gets into this line of work permanently, John will just assign himself as the personal drink mixer extraordinaire for professional terrorists. That's going to take him places on a resume.  
  
He sets the tub of whey protein on the counter and stands by it. They've ordered him not to speak, and he can get that. This isn't exactly his area of expertise. There's another man with them, tall, clean cut, and strong limbed. John resists working out his smoothie flavor when he sees they all have their guns trained on them. Rosa doesn't look like she has such a soft side anymore, and Tate looks like he'd rather like to tear John into itty bitty bits and stuff him into a blender set to puree.  
  
Bane and Talia have their own guns out. John doesn't have a gun, John has never fired a gun in his life, and now he really wishes he'd joined Barsad at the firing range at least once because he doesn't think a blender is going to do much to stop a bullet, and it's pretty much three against two with him just standing there.  
  
Of course, he totally has a plan and all, but it's a long-shot at best, and he'd rather not use it. Three guns against two guns; not the best odds.  
  
Talia and Bane are looking calm, calmer than he's sure he looks. Talia nods in greeting and keeps her gun to Rosa's head.  
  
"Where is Barsad?"  
  
"Alive, which is more than a traitor deserves." Tate's voice is different, darker. John wonders if even him getting a punch in on him was faked, something to put him into a false sense of security. "And now you will come back with us, sister," the endearment is nearly spat out, "and you will be in willing agreement with our ideals when we speak to your father about them, securing a brighter future for us all.”  
  
"Or things will become very nasty for your fallen brother," Rosa agrees, and Bane's jaw tightens.  
  
"I will not be going with you, and you will give me back my friend, or there will be nothing in your future but death," Talia promises.  
  
John finds a gun aimed at his head is a very unpleasant thing, indeed. He swallows, hand squeezing tightly into the plastic opening of the protein powder container.  
  
"Perhaps you need to be shown that this is not a game, sister," Tate says smoothly, his gun staying trained on John. "So many friends around you, and so many ways for them to die.”  
  
Bane tightens, coils, ready to strike even before the signal, but when Talia tilts her head nearly imperceptibly is when John throws the container.  
  
Maybe it seems stupid in the whole list of things that could be done in this situation. He's not even sure how it came to him or if it'll work, oh God, please let it work. He lets himself drop down onto the ground just in case as a cloud of white obscures the air because there's three guns against two.  
  
But when the powder clears the air, there are only two guns to worry about because John remembered something. Something very important the first time he saw Tate.  
  
Tate who is on the floor now, wheezing, his fingers grasping at his throat.  
  
A silver flash under his cuff. He couldn't resist taking a look when Tate moved in closer to finally uncuff him, not really figuring he was the sort to wear jewelry, but maybe looks could be deceiving. Interesting.  
  
He can still see it on him as he struggles to breathe.

Medical alert bracelet. Milk.  
  
It was a long shot, to be honest, but a powerful looking man, a man like Tate, someone who would clearly hate to be seen as weak, willingly wearing something that exposed him had to mean that allergy is pretty fucking severe, right?  
  
John's just kind of glad he's apparently allergic to whey and not, say, lactose. That'd be embarrassing right now.  
  
Two guns is no contest, not when there's so much confusion and Bane and Talia are willing to use it to their advantage, knowing the distraction planned beforehand. John smacks his hands over his ears so he doesn't have to hear the shots as loudly. He knows they're coming, and he should probably be more upset over that, but he'll worry about his conscience and the fact that he's ok with committing murder and heinous acts as long as they get Barsad back safe and sound later.  
  
Much later.  
  
Maybe he should just repress that part.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter guys, but I will be posting an epilogue. :)

A bullet goes through one of the wide, cheery windows; it shatters and glass rains down. If he wasn't going to be fired before, well, there that went.  
  
"Come!" Bane shouts to him, and John is more than a little impressed when he hoists himself straight through the window to save time and have the element of surprise on the men outside standing around a car.  
  
John knew they'd be there. Talia and Bane are too smart not to cover their bases. He covers his ears again.  
  
When it's over, he practically rips the car door open.  
  
There's no one in the car, but then John realizes that the men weren't guarding the car. They were guarding the trunk.  
  
Talia dives into the driver's seat and pops the trunk lock, Bane yanks it open. It's a horror and a relief that Barsad is there. He looks so small, curled into a fetal position and bound from head to toe in reams of duct tape and wires. There's a gag forced into his mouth with more tape, even more over his eyes.  
  
There's blood. It's thick and soaked into his pantlegs, a tight bandage around his knee the only sign of mercy given for the bullet wound. John can't even imagine the amount of excruciating pain that he has to be in. He's quiet, so quiet, and John's heart is pounding until Bane reaches out to touch him and he sparks to life like a livewire, thrashing in his bonds and letting out muffled shouts beneath his gag.  
  
There isn't time to work him loose, Bane instead scoops him up bodily and carries him into their car. It's a wild struggle at first; Barsad seems half out of his mind. When Bane shifts him into the back, he keeps him in his lap.  
  
 _“One of our few rules is that he cannot be left alone while he is bound, or after it."_  
  
He understands why, he's learned that. Barsad can't be alone with himself, he can't feel like he's completely helpless and out of control without someone he trusts to guide him. He's struggling and shaking now, his breathing raspy and ragged through the gag. Bane holds him close, his embrace near suffocating, worth the pain it has to be causing, as he makes quiet reassurances.  
  
"I am here, lamb. There is nothing to fear." He works the gag out of his mouth and the tape from his eyes with care and unsteady fingers. His presence seems to finally break through to Barsad's pain-wracked mind. He's near hyperventilating, eyes wild when he sags against him in an exhausted relief, swallowing when he is finally able to clear his vision and focus on them, see them all there and whole.  
  
"I told them nothing," Barsad rasps weakly while John tries not to jostle him as he works the tape off of his arms and ankles, avoiding his knee at all costs.  
  
"As if we had any doubt." Bane tenderly touches his cheek, soothingly running his fingers over the ugly red marks left on the corners of his mouth from the tightness of the gag.  
  
"How bad is he?"  
  
"Hello, little sister." Barsad smiles weakly. "I am fine."  
  
"Fine? You're not FINE, Barsad, you're severely fucking injured!"  
  
Barsad lets out a small pained laugh and shakes against Bane's chest. It chokes off into a sob when Bane strokes through his hair, quickly cut off when he grits his teeth to choke it back.  
  
"He needs a doctor. As fast as possible." Bane's tone is tinged with worry. "He's lost too much blood already."  
  
"I have it set up. You must only be strong and survive for us, Barsad."  
  
"For you, sister, anything," Barsad promises. He rests, looking pallid in Bane's arms, but Bane doesn't let him sleep.  
  
The woman they pick up on a dark curb carrying a worn rucksack sure as hell doesn't look like any doctor he's ever seen. She curses Barsad up and down in what John is forced to guess from some blurry high school classes is Spanish while she injects him with morphine and treats the wound, pulling different tools from her bag and working with quick, skilled fingers. Barsad's breathing is shallow for it while he grips Bane's hand. When he needs blood, Talia promptly rolls up her sleeve.  
  
And all of that without stopping the car. He thinks Talia should have at least let him drive during the transfusion.  
  
Does she even have a license?  
  
They lay him out onto the hotel bed as carefully as possible, and Barsad moans in pain. He's patched up. The doctor said he would make it, but the patchwork job she did is not a permanent thing. There was talk about possibly even needing to have his knee replaced down the road depending on how it heals. Right now, he's doped up out of his head and John's glad for him for that at least.  
  
"C'mere," Barsad demands to Bane, holding his arms out weakly. Bane finally seems like he can breathe again with Barsad on the bed, hurt but smiling a hazy grin at him that is way bigger than it ever would be without the help of a whole lot of drugs. Bane doesn't deny him his sudden need for affection, lying down beside him and wrapping an arm around his waist.  
  
"You know better than to run off, lamb."  
  
Barsad hums and holds an arm out, wanting John and Talia with him, too. Talia guides his head into her lap and gently works her fingers through his mussed locks. John sits and rubs his hand against his side.  
  
"You scared the fucking piss out of me," John whispers when the room is quiet. His eyes sting when he says it, and Talia pats his shoulder.  
  
"It was certainly not my intention," Barsad promises, his lips curling into a smile when Bane kisses his cheek, telling him to stop talking.  
  
They sleep in a pile like that, Barsad safe between them, Bane's hand on his gun, still, and a chair wedged under the door.  
  
"You can't be serious. Why can't I come with you now?" he asks when he's told the plan isn't changed. Barsad is still sleeping, his cheeks have more color in them and John strokes one. "They're taken care of, aren't they? I should just come with you now."  
  
"They're not 'taken care of,’ John," Talia says softly. She's watching him touch Barsad and seems to approve. "They are only members of that group. We need to take care of things, make them safe again."  
  
"I want to help."  
  
"Not with this," Bane says.  
  
"I think I did a pretty damn good job today. I saved our fucking asses."  
  
"You were amazing, John. You have very sharp instincts," Talia agrees, and he wasn't exactly fishing for compliments. He tries to demure, but she squeezes his hand firmly. "This is something else entirely, though; this is politics and backstabbing and very tricky. One misstep and it could damn us all."  
  
"You will be safe if you leave town as we discussed. Without us there, no one will have any reason to bother you. They will assume we have lost interest if we do not take you with us."  
  
"Like you could lose interest in me," John says, but his heart isn't in it. Bane gives him a smile and runs his hand across his cheek.  
  
"We will miss you very much, John. We will work to take care of this as soon as possible so that we can reunite."  
  
John nods a little, and when Bane offers, he lets himself get scooped up for an embrace. It's hard saying goodbye, even with Barsad more lucid. Even though he's known Talia in-person for only a day, it feels like she's been there the entire time, and it hurts to leave her, too, even knowing it's not forever.

 

____________________

  
Three months. Three damn months, and John hates every day.  
  
Ok, that's a lie. He doesn't hate every day. He's not one to wallow in self-pity. It's a new city, and honestly, it's interesting to be away from Gotham, but he misses them, and sometimes when he's feeling lonely at night he wonders if maybe they figured either they were better off without him or he was too much of a risk. He pushes those thoughts aside because he knows they're not like that. They wouldn't leave him just hanging.  
  
But three months is a long time without a single word. Turns out working in a coffee shop is a lot like working in a smoothie shop, and he kind of likes it. It only takes a week or two before he's developed the same skill set, and he uses it to pass the time. Instead of going home smelling like bananas, he just burns his fingers a little on steamed milk about twice a day. It seems like a reasonable trade.  
  
The door chimes; three half-caf lowfat iced mochas for a group of mothers with their toddlers in tow and letting them scramble around the store. He sort of hopes a bookshelf falls on at least one of them. Survival of the fittest.  
  
Another chime, one small espresso for a man with a screenplay tucked under his arm and a haunted look in his eyes.  
  
It's a slow day and he's getting bored, considering if he can get someone else to cover his shift for the rest of the night, when the door chimes again. He glances up from wiping down the counter top and stops mid-swipe, feeling a little choked as the corners of his mouth tug into a smile.  
  
Medium cinnamon anise tea, bitter, with condensed milk; something to remind her of home.  
  
Extra large mulled cider, warm and steamy; the spices bring back old memories.  
  
Caffè Americano, for irony, with three shots of espresso for those sleepy eyes.  
  
Oh, yeah.  
  
Extra small.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

"Your breathing, John," Bane reminds him gently, a barely-there whisper by his ear, and John draws in a shivery breath. He had been trembling, panting; the slow, steady inhale of fresh air into his lungs evens him out and he is able to sigh, loosen and relax, to nuzzle against Barsad's throat and feel the vibration of a breathy moan against his lips.  
  
John can't pick a favorite tie, they've put him into so many and each has different uses and reasons...  
  
But this? Their arms wrapped snuggly around each other and their wrists bound to keep them still, their thighs draped, tangled and tied together and forcing them to be so close, nothing but skin against skin, red and blue ropes intertwining and joining them together.  
  
It might just be one of his favorites.  
  
Judging by the fact that it's one of the ones Barsad struggles the least for, only a cursory pinning and some rough struggling before Bane tells him how he's going to tie them together, then he goes pliant for him, John is guessing that it's one of his favorites, too.  
  
Maybe it's because it's just so comfortable. They've used it for more than sex; Bane's put them into it and laid them out on the bed for hours, just watching them holding onto each other, watching as the closeness either made them excited and squirming until their cocks were hard and trapped between their stomachs and they were trying to rub off against each other with what little wiggle room they had, or it relaxed them, made the tension of a long day rush out of them and they kissed, cuddled a little and just let themselves rest.  
  
Now is a wonderful combination of the two. Bane has been taking turns petting them. It's been hours of those caresses, those repetitive strokes across every exposed inch of skin, and now he feels them everywhere, tingling through him even when Bane's hands aren't directly on him.  
  
His throat is dry despite the water bottle Bane held to his mouth not long ago. He can't stop moaning and trembling whenever Bane's rough fingers trace over the back of his neck, pressing into bruises and bites they've both left, tracing the knobs of his spine until he gets to Barsad's wrists tied around him, petting him before moving down John's body and to the curve of his ass, the sensitive skin on the backs of his thighs.  
  
Every touch is just a little more arousing, builds him up a little more, so light and not enough, but each little touch has piled on top of one another for hours on end and now he feels like he's sinking under them, all sweat-slick against Barsad who is making soft sounds with him, drawing in breath just as desperately. He can feel him shifting, his fingers flexing behind his back. They're both floating by now in a shared headspace where everything is hazy, wonderful pleasure, where their only anchor to Earth is Bane's voice, giving gentle guidance and praise.  
  
He noses against Barsad's cheek, slots their lips together for a kiss and gets it, desperate and hungry, a tongue flicking into his mouth. They've been kissing on and off for hours now, going until their lips are hot and slick, nearly sore to the touch. They never talk when they've been tied like this for so long, it breaks the spell, the gentle lulling Bane has coaxed them into, so they show one another how grateful they are for the other’s presence, for their skin pressed flush against each other, with their kisses, with bites to the neck and the sucking of swollen lips, because they are both so grateful for the other being there, bound together for Bane's pleasure and for each other’s.  
  
"You are both doing beautifully," Bane praises with a kiss to their cheeks, a rub through Barsad's beard and his fingers running briefly through John's hair. "I want you to stay like this for me for a bit longer."  
  
Bane's fingers trail down John's thigh, and he whimpers even as Barsad is kissing across his jaw. He's aching now, and 'a bit longer' can mean so many things. He doesn't want this to stop, though he knows the wait will be worth it; it's always been worth it. He hears Barsad sigh when Bane tilts his head, presses a firm kiss to his forehead and makes him focus, open heavy eyes and look at him for a moment.  
  
"I am going to the kitchen, lamb."  
  
Barsad's eyes go clear for a long moment before hazing out again. He nods and blinks, eyes going lidded as he lets himself sink back down into the warmth with John. This has taken a long time and a lot of talking, a lot of testing, for Barsad to be able to be tied with only John in the room.  
  
After the incident, it took some time for Barsad to be ok with being tied period, first from the pain in his leg, later from the memories, but he was tough, determined not to allow something he thought was beautiful between himself and Bane to be tainted. Now Bane can leave the room if John is there, at first untied, to stroke Barsad's back while he struggled, sliding into him eagerly when he would finally give in and ask for it. Now, though, they're usually laid up together in whatever creative position Bane has thought of, and Bane has such an active imagination.  
  
Barsad's breathing quickens just for a moment when they feel Bane's presence gone, but it's nothing when John nuzzles against his bristle, makes a needy sound until Barsad is coaxed into kissing him again. He feels the muscles against him relax and they're together in this again; the only noises reaching their ears is the quiet clink of dishes from the kitchen, the low murmur of discussion.  
  
Talia is out there, and before that would have embarrassed him, taken him out of his haze in an instant, but Talia has become a normal part of this since the day she came home early from an outing and saw him clothed and bound up, spread across Bane and Barsad's laps. He'd yelped, snapped out of the sleepy state they'd worked him into, and nearly rolled out of their laps.  
  
She had laughed softly and walked over to pat his head before she took off her coat.  
  
 _"You act as though my brothers do not share everything with me."_  
  
 _"Oh God," he had groaned, feeling the heat of embarrassment rushing through his body._  
  
 _Barsad had dug his fingers into the small of his back. "Deep breaths, we'd just relaxed you."_  
  
 _He had protested that there was no way he was going to relax with Talia right there seeing him all tied up._  
  
 _He had nearly yelped again when they'd guided him into her lap. She had sifted her fingers through his hair, petted down his back. "This is what relieves your tensions, isn't it, little brother? Then do not be embarrassed by it."_  
  
It had been a little too easy for her to coax him back into his sleepy state with her fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. Now when she comes home to it, he only has a brief wave a shyness pass through him, not the disruption of before, nothing to jostle him out of his relaxed state. She often kisses his cheek and sometimes takes him into her lap, lips pursing into a small smile when he can't resist nestling into her, asking silently for her fingers in his hair while they all have a hushed conversation about the day.  
  
John's days are... interesting, hard, stressful but invigorating. He supposes that that's why he always asks for the ties when he knows they have some time off. There's so much to learn from all of them, and it's important to learn it all—fighting, a new language, new customs.  
  
He's working with a small group now, being trained to use his observation skills to their fullest, looking at hours of surveillance on end, picking out suspicious people, having to work fast before they're off the camera in a flash. Talia says that it's a vital skill, that he'll be very useful to their cause, and it makes him warm at the pride in her tone for him. He wants to help; he's never felt more useful, like he has a cause, and a good one, from everything he's learned.  
  
It's a lot of work, though, and by the end of his days he's never been more happy to be able to slide into Bane's arms and go slack, a clear sign that he's giving him the control. Sometimes, Bane decides Barsad needs to join them, and he kisses his cheek tenderly, settling him on the bed and goes back to wrestle Barsad into submission. Other times, Barsad is the one to tie the ropes with Bane, to lay him out for them so he doesn't have to think anymore, he just has to be good and take whatever they want to give, which can be anything from just holding him while they relax to using him through the night until he's a shivering mess.  
  
There's a low laugh drifting from the kitchen, and they smile together, so much wider and more genuine than either of them allow when they're outside of the safe bubble of their home, and they can feel each other’s against their lips. They both love to hear Bane's rich laughter, especially when they're drifting like this. It makes a warmth grow in John's belly that spreads out through his limbs; from Barsad's content sigh, he knows it's likely the same for him. They listen together, nuzzle and kiss.  
  
John can feel the hot wet of Barsad's cock leaking against his stomach. He knows his own is much the same. He's been hard for hours now, not to the point of it driving him to complete distraction, but it's a constant low buzz in the back of his mind. He squirms and shifts his hips as much as he can, sighing at the luxurious drag of it against Barsad's stomach.  
  
He repeats the motion, feeling himself build up more, a soft, frustrated noise coming from the back of his throat when he realizes it's not nearly enough. Bane has tied them loosely, loose enough that they can be like this for a long while and not have to worry as much about circulation, but it's still snug enough that, without him wanting them to, neither of them will be getting off.  
  
A soft chuckle means Bane is back with them. John can feel the low dip of the mattress beside him and a warm hand squeezing his shoulder.  
  
"Soon, John," he promises. "Give me a number, both of you."  
  
John has to think for a moment, carefully take stock of how his limbs feel. It's been a while and they ache, but it's nothing terrible, in fact he rather enjoys it. There's no numbness, he can wiggle his fingers and toes, which he does happily for a moment before holding up three fingers, a sure sign that he's more than willing to keep going. Two would mean they have some leeway but he's getting tired, one would be time to wrap things up.  
  
He's guessing Barsad's giving a three, too, since Bane makes a pleased sound and suddenly there's a morsel of food at his lips, warm sangak with a bit of lamb wrapped up in it. He didn't realize he was so hungry until the faint spices reach his nose. He stomach rumbles, and he takes the bite between his lips, chewing slowly.  
  
Bane feeds them both little mouthfuls, getting kisses to his fingers, playful bites and fights over whose turn it is, wet, heated tongues licking and sucking juicy bits of lamb from his fingertips and eventually full, sated tummies. They take turns licking the bits of grease from each other’s lips, and Bane strokes down their sides, watching and enjoying them being playful.  
  
Barsad runs his tongue slickly over his lips, presses forward so his breath tickles against his ear before he feels the sharp nibble of teeth over his lobe. He squirms at the bite there, the little suck and pull of it between Barsad's teeth until he's moaning, nuzzling more while Bane pats his side, rubs a warm hand against his hip.  
  
"You both did very well today." Bane's tone is full of approval, and it's as warm as any caress down John's skin. "Did you wish to rest?"  
  
Barsad grunts indignantly and John can't help but rise to the obvious baiting, as well; they're both far too deep in to have any built up defenses against it. Barsad wriggles and it forces them to rock together slowly, until John is moaning out with him and they're both putting on a show that tells Bane just how badly they need him.  
  
It's rewarded. John hears the dish being set aside, the sound of their bedroom drawer opening and his eyelids lower when Bane's fingers press into him slowly, wet with lube and stroking him inside. Barsad cries out softly, and John knows he's getting the same treatment. His own shaky breathing cuts off when Bane curls his fingers into him.  
  
"Breathe, John," Bane reminds him yet again, and he draws in stuttery breaths, smiles at a kiss to his chin from Barsad. His heart is pounding in his chest, and each stroke of Bane's fingers in him brushes just where it needs to in order to make him throb in pleasure.  
  
"Who's turn is it?" Bane asks, not expecting a true verbal answer, but John knows that it's his. He clenches down greedily on his fingers, willing him to remember. It's the only downside to both being tied like this. One goes without being filled by Bane, and after being teased all day, thinking about him stretching him open, John needs it to be him getting it.  
  
It's not jealousy when it's Barsad's turn, but it's a deep, aching want. It's watching Barsad's eyes widen and lower as different sensations wash through him, it's seeing all of the pleasure on his face and the wanton moans pulled up from deep in him, it's two fingers, then three, sometimes four, stretching him wide and thrusting into him in time with Bane rocking into Barsad, and it's so good like that, too, but it's not what he needs right now.  
  
But Bane always seems to know which one of them needs him the most on any given night. John clenches his fists tightly when his fingers leave him, when he's kneeling behind him and pressing the tip of his cock against him. He bites down into his own lip when Bane slides home, guiding himself in with a forceful push that burns just enough to make John feel like he's going to melt, enough that he revels in the feeling of more skin against skin and the knowledge that there's nothing between them. He's sent more than one thank you to whatever god will listen that his testing came back clean and they've done away with condoms.  
  
Barsad makes a soft, nearly disappointed noise, and John kisses him in sympathy, knowing he'd do the same and that it’s likely their positions will switch the next time and he'll be the one in need of a bit of comfort. It doesn't last for long, though; Bane makes it so good for both of them and soon all he can think about is how he's thrusting into him, long strokes that make him rock against Barsad and pull content, pleasured moans out of him. Barsad is letting out hoarse cries, Bane's fingers thrusting into him roughly, twisting against the sensitive nerves in him in a way that has him nearly thrashing in their ties.  
  
Barsad is first, and he whimpers for his release, a noise he nearly never makes, only when they're like this, torn down and open for Bane. John flutters his eyes open to watch him, how his head snaps back and his throat forms a perfect arch as he feels his dick twitching against his stomach, the sudden scorching wetness that's now rubbing between them, soaking into their skin. It makes them slippery, makes his own cock, so desperate for release, rub slickly between them.  
  
Bane growls low in his throat and John whines in response when he thrusts faster, spurred on by Barsad's sated panting.  
  
"Your turn, John."  
  
Bane works his hand between them, and John gasps at the sudden tight grip around his cock, the wet stroking and Bane urging him on. He isn't prepared for the suddenness of it, and it sets him off fast, makes his toes curl and the tension in his belly snap while he comes obediently in Bane's pumping hand, his strangled moan getting swallowed up in a kiss by Barsad. He's barely aware of Bane's sudden, sharp thrust forward except that it makes their teeth click together and Bane's hand tightens onto his hip, digs into the bone enough to bruise while he fills John with his come, leaving his mark inside and out.  
  
John makes a near grumpy noise when Bane slips out of him, shifts his thighs as much as they can be and sighs when he can feel him trickling out of him. Barsad laughs beside him, sounding light still as Bane unties them piece by piece. He rubs their wrists, their arms, their thighs, each bit with firm, dedicated fingers until he's sure there's no tingling or over-soreness.

 John only slurs his words a little when he tries to tell him to stop being such a worrier. It gets him a fond look anyway, and even though they've spent the entire day pressed together, once Barsad isn't against his skin he misses him, makes an impatient noise while they're getting wiped clean and holds his arms out, demanding him back.

"Gimme."

Barsad laughs and drapes himself over John's chest, laying a kiss on the now clean skin. "So greedy." His words are soft, too; it's always a slow trip back up to the surface where things like words are commonplace.

 Bane guides his head to his leg and slowly strokes through their hair. The night is still a bit young to be sleeping, and in the back of his mind he knows he wants to go to the living room, see Talia, spend time with all four of them together, but for now he drifts happily, his fingers contemplatively running along the rope marks left behind on his wrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading everyone and for your kudos and kind comments! 
> 
> Shameless tumblr plug- http://relevantlyirreverent.tumblr.com/


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